Long, long ago, nails were living, breathing creatures that inhabited the forests near human villages. They were said to be tricksters, these devilish nails, and they often went into crowded places so unsuspecting humans would step on them. Some even coated themselves in a magical ugly orange-brown substance that made humans tense up painfully and die when injected into them. Now, I do not know if any of you have stepped on any type of nail before--as in a fossil or model of one, of course, not a living nail, as live imps like that have not roamed the world for many, many centuries--but it is very painful. Doornails derived pleasure from the pain of humans, you see. That is why many villages hired doornail hunters to extinguish these foul demons, as people valued their feet and lives very dearly.

The doornail hunters, as they were called, used very specific tactics to take out these evil creatures. They would raid nail colonies wearing thick, heavy boots to keep their feet safe, and they would catch the troublemakers using a special net. Upon returning to their homes in the villages, the hunters would force the weakened (if not already dead) nails into the doors of the townspeople with a hammer. This served as a morbid message to the surviving nails: should they come anywhere near the village, they would be killed, and their corpses would be put up for display on someone human's door. Thus, these imps came to be called "doornails".

It is said that the doornails, unable to harm humans as they had before, eventually died out. People liked the look of their doors being studded with devil corpses, though, so people began making their own (not living) nails to adorn their passageways. Rumor has it that sometimes, these nails are possessed by the evil spirits of the past, to take revenge and stab people's feet once more... This, however, is nonsense. The imps are dead: as we would say, dead as a doornail.

This cliche conjures up the image of every opening scene to Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol to me, since it's used all the time to describe Jacob Marley's, y'know, extreme deadness. Given that it's nearing the holiday season, it'll probably be heard a little more often, so hey, now's a better time than ever to rethink its entire meaning.

Some say that Shakespeare coined the phrase, and some say it was some other poet guy named Plowman who first said it. I dunno.

Death is at her doorstep but I do not let him in.

I do not fear him, I am not ready to let her go, I still want to win.

This sickness that claims her body, it will not take her soul.

I am a fighter and she loves to win, I wont let death take its toll.

She has so much more to accomplish with her life, why did it have to be her.

I will tell the reaper, please go away, I will get down on my knees and beg, I will do whatever you confer.

As I sit here and watch my love, struggling to keep her life, I pray to the gods above, please don't take my wife.

I don't want to greet the reaper, go knock on someone else's door.

Why must you bother her, take her away, she has a child to bear, a life to give to the world.

This child that is inside her, the child that is mine, our child deserves a chance, that child will carry on our bloodline.

Family and a True Love, that's what we all want. So Mr. Reaper, if you would kindly leave, go on to your next soul to take, for this one is not going anywhere on this particular eve.

Don't fear the Reaper - Blue Oyster Cult

LYRICS

All our times have come

Here but now they're gone

Seasons don't fear the reaper

Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain..we can be like they are

Come on baby...don't fear the reaper

Baby take my hand...don't fear the reaper

We'll be able to fly...don't fear the reaper

Baby I'm your man...

Valentine is done

Here but now they're gone

Romeo and Juliet

Are together in eternity...Romeo and Juliet

40,000 men and women everyday...Like Romeo and Juliet

40,000 men and women everyday...Redefine happiness

Another 40,000 coming everyday...We can be like they are

Come on baby...don't fear the reaper

Baby take my hand...don't fear the reaper

We'll be able to fly...don't fear the reaper

Baby I'm your man...

Love of two is one

Here but now they're gone

Came the last night of sadness

And it was clear she couldn't go on

Then the door was open and the wind appeared

The candles blew then disappeared

The curtains flew then he appeared...saying don't be afraid

Come on baby...and she had no fear

And she ran to him...then they started to fly

They looked backward and said goodby...she had become like they are

She had taken his hand...she had become like they are

Come on baby...don't fear the reaper

I LOVE this song so much, so much that it is my ringtone on my cellphone and I saw Blue Oyster Cult in concert at our local county fair!  This song is so bittersweet and beautiful, not about suicide at all, just about not fearing death when it knocks on your door. And those cowbells (listen to song sometime to hear them), come on, the song would not be the same without them!

P.S. (I am not much of a "storyteller" per say, but I do love to write! So I still hope you like my "Story" and Lyrics!)

Scars to Your Beautiful by Alessia Cara

“I can’t take this anymore!” Sonya yells to the mirror in her dressing room. Just then Sonya notices a shadow lingering in the doorway. Again, Sonya whispers to herself, “I can’t take this anymore.”

The shadow steps forward, revealing the hesitant face of Mia, Sonya’s best friend. “What can’t you take anymore, Sonya?” Mia thinks Sonya will blow the question off, so Mia’s startled when Sonya breaks down.

“This! Everything!” Sonya waves her hand around the room. “The pressure, the stress, the diets, the rules, the constant attention.” Sonya wipes her eyes. “All the time: you can’t be in the sun; you have to wear this makeup; you need to lose five pounds by thursday; smile; turn your; head; lift up your chin. I can’t take it!”

Mia, unsure of how to respond to her best friend’s outburst, walks forward and wraps an arm around her Sonya’s thin shoulders.

“Sonya, I… You…” Mia trails off.

Just then, Missy pops her head into the room. “Sonya, five minutes.” As quick as she came, Missy leaves.

Mia turns to Sonya’s face. Mia watches as Sonya steps away, takes a few, deep breaths, and quickly starts to reapply her makeup. Within a minute, Sonya looks like she wasn’t just crying.

“Sonya-” Mia starts.

“Don’t Mia, I’m fine. That happens sometimes, I’m fine, really. Just a lapse of composure.”

“No, Sonya, you’re not okay. You need help. You-”

“Mia, really I’m fine.” Sonya snaps. Sonya closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, starts again. “Mia, I’m okay, really, I am. I don’t need help, I’m okay.”

“Sonya, you’re not…” Mia stops herself, changes tactics. “What if you’re not okay, Sonya? Then what?”

“Then what? Then I keep going Mia. Covergirls don’t cry after their face is made. I’m a covergirl, I can’t cry or complain.”

“But what about when they’re starving? Do they get help then? You’re too skinny. This isn’t beauty, Sonya.” Mia persists.

“There’s beauty in everything. What’s a little bit of hunger? I can go a little while longer.”

Exasperated, Mia says, “Maybe you can go a little while longer, but you’re going to become so skinny, you’ll be ugly.” Ugly. The word no covergirl wants to hear.

“Two more photoshoots, Mia. Then, I have three weeks off. Three weeks of eating whatever I want. Except chocolate, soda, carbs-”

“Sonya!” Mia shouts. Sonya, alarmed, looks directly at Mia, instead of Mia’s reflection in the mirror. “Sonya, you’re going to fade away. You’re going to disappear.”

“I have to do this, Mia, I have to.” Sonya waves her hand around the room.

Missy sticks her head into the room again. “You’re up, Sonya.”

Sonya nods and heads to the door, but Mia reaches out and grabs her arm.

“Sonya. Beauty goes deeper than the surface. There’s beauty, hope for you waiting for you. You’re beautiful just the way you are. You don’t have to change yourself with makeup, clothes, diets. You’re beautiful.”

With a small, weak, smile, Sonya pulls away from Mia and leaves, leaving Mia standing alone.

Original Lyrics

She just wants to be beautiful

She goes unnoticed, she knows no limits

She craves attention, she praises an image

She prays to be sculpted by the sculptor

Oh, she don't see the light that's shining Deeper than the eyes can find it

Maybe we have made her blind

So she tries to cover up her pain and cut her woes away

'Cause cover girls don't cry after their face is made

But there's a hope that's waiting for you in the dark

You should know you're beautiful just the way you are

And you don't have to change a thing, the world could change its heart

No scars to your beautiful, we're stars and we're beautiful

Oh-oh, oh-oh

And you don't have to change a thing, yhe world could change its heart

No scars to your beautiful, we're stars and we're beautiful

She has dreams to be an envy, so she's starving

You know, covergirls eat nothing

She says beauty is pain and there's beauty in everything

What's a little bit of hunger?

I could go a little while longer, she fades away

She don't see her perfect, she don't understand she's worth it

Or that beauty goes deeper than the surface

Oh, oh

So to all the girls that's hurting

Let me be your mirror, help you see a little bit clearer

The light that shines within

There's a hope that's waiting for you in the dark

You should know you're beautiful just the way you are

And you don't have to change a thing, the world could change its heart

No scars to your beautiful, we're stars and we're beautiful

Oh-oh, oh-oh

And you don't have to change a thing, the world could change its heart

No scars to your beautiful, we're stars and we're beautiful

No better you than the you that you are (no better you than the you that you are)

No better life than the life we're living (no better life than the life we're living)

No better time for your shine, you're a star (no better time for your shine, you're a star)

Oh, you're beautiful, oh, you're beautiful

And there's a hope that's waiting for you in the dark

You should know you're beautiful just the way you are

And you don't have to change a thing, the world could change its heart

No scars to your beautiful, we're stars and we're beautiful

Oh-oh, oh-oh

And you don't have to change a thing, the world could change its heart

No scars to your beautiful, we're stars and we're beautiful

“How is this happening?” she gasped. She had pulled me into the corner of the dimly lit room to kid ourselves into thinking this gave privacy. As it turns out, our voices didn’t really carry, the room muffled so well with heavy curtains, carpet, even tapestries.

“I don’t know,” I answered tenuously. I looked back into the room, through the darkly dressed attendees toward the coffin. “They did a pretty good job on me, didn’t they?” Her eyes widened in fright. She began shaking. “Sorry, I said.” I could understand her shock.

I walked over to the coffin. The group of mourners parted for me, silently, their disbelief declared, loud and clear. I tossed my head to look back and she had remained in her corner, like being punished. I caught four of five people hurriedly escaping the room. They made stifled crying sounds as they racewalked away. I turned back to the casket and resumed approaching it. It was all like a dream.

I kneeled down and said a Hail Mary. God knows I needed it. There I was, lying in state, cold, like marble, just a support for a suit. Is this what I had amounted to? 170 pounds of sinew, dried blood, bones, and tissue imbued with embalming fluid? I was so dead. Not even real any more. I felt my own person, patting myself down; 98.6 degrees, breathing, thinking, and even mourning.

"There are only two possibilities: yes or no," he had said. “Are you going to call it?”

His hand was ready to flip the coin. I struggled against my restraints. It’s so funny how something so insignificant can make an enemy of someone. Significant enough for him, I suppose. A coin in one hand, a revolver in the other. I didn’t even remember what I had done. He obviously had. He hated me, after all. And now he said he was undecided about whether to blow my brains out or not. He said he wanted someone named Schrödinger to help him decide, whoever that was.

“Well,” he said with a smirk, “I’m gonna take that as a yes. So I will flip this coin and you will call it. You call it right, you live; if not, well...”

“You would leave something like this up to chance?”

“There is no chance,” he replied. “When I flip this coin we’ll be saddled with a result, and you will either live or you will die.” He tossed the coin with an added flick of one finger such that it spun on a horizontal axis as it shot upward. The coin’s trajectory reached its highest point in its parabolic arc, transitioning between rising and falling, with my life literally hanging in the air.

I found it fascinating seeing who would attend my own funeral. It’s revealing how some you thought were your friends were too busy to come see you off. And then there were those you had no idea were endeared to you in some way, taking their turns to kneel right there, throwing their own Hail Mary’s, Our Father’s, or Glory Be’s into the hat.

My hat. My casket. My empty shell where my soul should be.

Of course all of this—the usual goings-on of a typical wake—had stopped in midair, so to speak, when I had shown up. When I realized I was at my own wake, I expected a stampede of mourners to rush the exits, but most stayed. And why would I not be in that stampede? Why wasn’t I unsettled by all of this? But I was being rude and unkind, so I walked back to the corner.

“I have no idea how this is possible. I know I’m also somewhere else right now, with my life at the mercy of a coin toss. A coin toss that has begun but hasn’t completed.” She didn’t understand. Her eyes began to tear. I turned to the crowd.

“Hello?” a frightened child—my own child—asked tentatively.

“Hello,” I replied. This was the first time anyone but her could actually hear me. There was a collective gasp, and the small child ran to his mother in the corner of the room and hid behind her.

“Tell us about…this,” she said aloud, pointing to me with one hand and to the body with the other. “Please!” Her voice broke. I turned away from her corner and I addressed my mourners.

“Who is Schrödinger?” I asked.

“What?” said a priest who stepped forward, willing to be spokesperson for the disbelievers as easily as he had been willing to be one for the believers before I had arrived in mid-toss.

“Who is Schrödinger?” I asked again. The priest stood perfectly still. He held a rosary he was going to use in a group prayer before I had crashed my own party.

“He was a 20th Century Austrian Physicist,” he answered.

“Is he alive? I was told he can help someone decide on something.”

“No, he dead.”

“Well, then, how can he help me?”

“He can’t by himself. Him,” and turning to my casket, added, “nor his cat. Not now.”

“Cat?”

“Just a mind exercise that says something either is or isn’t until it’s observed.”

“Ah,” I muttered to myself. “I’ve heard of that. Yes, I remember.” I searched my memory. “Yes, he can help me. I think he may have already.”

Once again I struggled against my restraints.

“So…heads or tails?” my captor challenged. “I’ll lift my hand and it will be either heads or tails. So call it. It’s your way of joining in the indecision and collapsing it.”

I was ready. I didn’t enjoy being no one in two places. My life was in the air as much as the coin had been, which now sat under his hand, ready to be called…ready to be observed.

“Heads,” I called it. He lifted his hand slowly. "No, wait!" He paused. "Make that tails."

#quantumfiction

#flashfiction

I don't remember grabbing the knife from the kitchen drawer. I just remember hearing whimpering coming from Kayla's room, and seeing his figure looming over her, his hand creeping under her blankets, and then rage. Hot, trembling, blinding rage. Not her. Not like me.

It happened in mere minutes. I caught a glimpse of Kayla's face, twisted with dread and fear like mine had been so many times before. Then something took over me. I wasn't myself anymore, just bloodlust and adrenaline.

The next thing I saw was my own white-knuckled fist plunging the knife into his back. He screamed. I screamed. Tears clouded my vision as I yanked the knife out and drove it into his shoulder, then the side of his neck, my heart pounding so loudly in my ears that I could barely hear his screams.

Then, it was over.

He lay slumped over on Kayla's bed, a crack of light from the open door falling on his still figure and the pool of crimson spreading rapidly beneath him. Kayla cowered in the corner, weeping.

The room began to spin around me and I dropped to my knees. I looked down at my hands in disbelief, unsure whether they were the same hands that had just taken my father's life.

He'd stolen my innocence and stained my childhood, yes, but did I really just kill him? Had I just taken a man's life? What would happen to me? To Kayla?

I felt hot and sick and my hands couldn't stop shaking, but the smallest hint of a smile crept upon my lips despite myself.

He couldn't hurt us anymore. Never again.

pain slips through my veins,

surges through my heart

rests upon my chest,

I gaze at the stars and feel

the emptiness that you left behind

I feel hollow

I feel drained

so pointless it seems

when you're not around,

so meaningless and forced

to smile,

to hope,

to live,

and yet I do,

I smile through my pain

I hope through my worries

and take breaths of life

that make me go on,

I am relentless in staying afloat,

even when I drown in my past

fighting the waves,

uncertain of my future

and fearing the things that make me whole,

that make me human

because the same things that glue me together

are also tearing me apart...

I am here world

look at me,

even though I'm broken

I'm still here...

caring,

loving,

feeling,

I am part of a bigger plan

that I do not comprehend,

slowly filling in the gaps

and always looking for clues

I am here world

still here,

still smiling,

carrying a heart

capable of fitting

all of this hot mess...

I am here world, here I am...

If you're sensitive, or faint of heart,

avoid this story before I start.

For this is a grisly tale of survival

that, if you can stand the savage, has no rival.

It begins in a damp, underground basement.

There's a live mouse trap that is an encasement.

(You've got an idea where this is leading,

so now is your chance to refrain from reading.)

Are you still with me? Then let me begin.

I checked the trap, and saw a mouse within.

It ate poison pellets. In a matter of time,

that little mouse would die for his trespassing crime.

In twenty-four hours, he would be dead,

and then I would do a task which I dread.

I'd carry the trap into the woods,

open the lid, and dump out the goods.

(By the way - if you didn't stop reading at first,

you might reconsider. Or, prepare for the worst.)

The time had come. I peered into the gap.

Another fool mouse had entered the trap!

Now, this drama had happened once before.

It ended in cannibalistic gore.

So through the thin gap I dropped more pellets in,

to prevent this dim mouse from eating dead kin.

Yet again, I waited another full day

before dumping the earthly remains away.

One more peek through the gap. Nothing moved.

At last, the contents could be removed.

I revisited the woods, far from my house.

When I lifted the lid, out ran one tough mouse!

I couldn't believe what I just saw.

I looked in the trap, and dropped my jaw.

On that first trapped mouse, the second mouse did dine.

All that was left was a stomach and a spine.

No feet. No tail. No ribs, no rump, no bull!

Why, that rodent had even consumed the skull!

The poison pellets? They were all gone.

What doesn't kill you will make you strong.

(If for distress you think you will sue -

you can't say that I didn't warn you.)

The moral of the story is this advice -

Get a cat, or get far away from the mice.