It was a group of neighbors gathering to toast the New Year. Compared to the Bacchanalian celebrations in large cities, it was a staid affair. Still, excitement permeated the room as people settled in front of the fire with drinks and finger food.

Cory stood in a corner near the Christmas tree. It was dropping needles and he tried to be as still as possible and not brush against it. He felt a kinship with the dying tree. It symbolized his waning holiday spirit in contrast to the boisterous revelers congregated at the center of the room. He listened to his neighbors recount tales of New Years past. Each story ended with an unspoken dare, "Top this if you can." And, the next storyteller took up the challenge.

December 31st took on mythological proportions. Was it the liquor? Was it simple one-upmanship? Was it a frenzy caught from crowds in strobe-lit public squares flashing across the screen of the muted television set? Cory imagined that these people believed all things capable of changing the course of the unfolding universe occurred on New Year's Eve. He scoffed at their childlike exuberance, biting his tongue to keep from telling them what he thought of their re-embroidered tales. But then, the host noted that the group hadn't heard from him.

Surprised to be pulled into the circle, Cory's voice wavered, "New Year is a utilitarian holiday. Why do you make so much of it?"

He might as well have turned over the champagne bucket. All conversation stopped and every eye burned through him. But he had begun and wouldn't be stopped now.

"It is nothing more than a marker in a mathematical scheme. There is no real magic, no mysticism. It's an accounting formula that allows days to be audited with the same precision as a timed event at the Olympic Games."

"It marks a new beginning," somebody protested.

"Every midnight, every hour, every minute marks a new beginning."

"It's about shedding the old and donning the new," another person offered.

"When was the last time you kept a resolution for the whole year?" Cory felt his face flush when he realized how hostile his tone had become. The crackle from the fireplace and tinkle of falling pine needles echoed in a tense stillness. That was his exit line. No need to allow them time to recover.

As he trudged down the street to his house, church bells peeled the first notes of "Auld Lang Syne." Fireworks lit up the sky. Turning the key in his front door, he whispered a resolution like a prayer. It was one he knew he could keep.

"No more New Year's parties!"

After thirty-five years of the nine-to-five grind spanning two careers, Roger Paris retired this year to pursue a life of reckless abandon in the fine arts. Since then, he's been published in The Book of Remembrance, Laughter Loaf, Agrippina, Mindprints and flashquake. His photography was featured in a month-long, two-person exhibition at Tallgrass Art Associates Gallery in Suburban Chicago and he was selected to design the cover for a first novel by Rita Wood coming out in April. The accomplishment he is most proud of is the art direction for flashquake.

New Year's resolution for 2003: "Decide what I want to be, when I grow up."

Copyright 2002 by Roger D. Paris

Special Issue HOME | Winter Issue HOME | Archives | Contact | Guidelines