Jason laughed absentmindedly as Drew Carey clowned on the screen. “Only 20 more minutes,” he thought, “until 2007 goes down in the history books.” He looked around his living room and gave a slight sigh.

“What’s wrong?” Alison asked.

He shook his head and shrugged. “Just reminiscing,” he replied. “Need a refill?” he asked as he carried his glass towards the kitchen.

“Can I have a refill, Daddy?” a small voice piped up from the sofa.

Jason's laugh was more genuine this time as he turned toward his young son. “Of course,” he said, affecting a French accent. “I am glad to see you are enjoying our fine, red 2007 vintage Kool-Aid.”

Robby didn’t get the joke, of course, but he laughed along with his daddy and mommy anyway. Alison shushed him with a finger to her lips, “Don’t wake up your sister.” Robbie was immediately quiet, not wanting to share the big boy privilege of staying up on New Year’s Eve with his baby sister.

Jason went to the kitchen to get the drinks while Robby snuggled back down onto the couch. His eyelids were drooping, but he was determined to make it all the way to midnight this year.

Jason was glad. Alison had wanted to get a babysitter and go out to celebrate an adult New Year’s with friends, but he had begged off claiming that he didn’t want to be out on the road with all the drunks, and reminding her that they had promised to let Robby stay up. She had acquiesced without argument, and had even reminded him to pick up extra child-friendly snacks.

She didn’t, however, know the real reason for his desire to be at home. He glanced at the clock. He was down to ten minutes, and he still felt unsettled about his New Year’s resolution. The fact was he needed to be clear headed and focused when the clock struck twelve, so that he would chose wisely.

Jason hadn’t been much older than Robby when he made it through his first New Year’s Eve. It had been Guy Lombardo then, and Jason’s parents wouldn’t have dreamed of letting a young child actually stay up until midnight. Instead, they had put him to bed at 7:00 and promised to wake him at 11:30. He had felt so grown up sitting there drinking milk, banging noisemakers, and making a sincere resolution: “I resolve to eat more vegetables.”

His mother had been so proud of him as the year progressed, and no one had really connected his sudden acquisition of a love for carrots with his resolution; but, as years passed, he began to notice a trend: His resolutions always came true.

There was the year that he resolved to improve his grades, and he made the honor roll for the first time. He resolved to be more outgoing, and he was elected class president. It had been a bit funny when he was little, but as he grew older, he realized that this was serious stuff. He stopped saying his resolutions out loud, and, after some rather dubious choices, he learned to be a bit more careful.

As far as he could tell, the resolution had to be something within his control. The year he resolved to win the lottery produced nothing. And when he had resolved to make Katy McDonald fall in love with him, it was equally pointless. However, his resolution to settle down and start a family had brought Alison and a whirlwind romance into his life.

Jason had never quite figured out if it was his own strength of character or some type of magic; but he knew it worked. It worked even when he resolved to do something that seemed impossible. The Bulldogs had won their only state championship during his senior year after he’d vowed to become a better baseball player.

He brought the drinks back into the living room and handed them out. He glanced around the small room and thought deeply. They really needed a bigger house. Both of their cars had over 100,000 miles on them. Sarah Jo was the sweetest baby on earth, and a definite blessing, but she had also been a bit of a surprise, and she seemed to go through a pack of diapers every other day.

He couldn’t resolve to win or find more money, but he knew that there had to be a solution. He had been rehearsing it in his mind, and he was pretty certain that resolving to earn his first million before he turned 30 would work. But, still he felt unsettled.

“Look, Daddy. There getting ready to drop the ball. Can you count down with me?”

“Ten, Nine, Eight…” They chanted in unison. Sarah Jo called out from her crib, and Alison ran to get her.

“Three, Two, One…” The held each other tightly in a group hug as they all shouted, “Happy New Year.”

Jason was surprised, but just for a second, as he whispered his resolution to himself; “I resolve to spend more time with my family” He looked around and finally felt at peace. He was already a rich man. Resolving to have more time to enjoy his treasure was wise indeed.

“Bonne année, bonne santé, Grandpapa!” The little girl’s eyes lit up with pleasure at seeing her grandfather and with pride at remembering the phrase. She ran into the living room to greet him and was swept up into his loving embrace.

“And Happy New Year to you, too, mon petit choufleur. And what do smart little girls get on New Year’s Day?” Without waiting for a reply, he magically plucked a shiny silver dollar from her ear.

She squealed in delight as she took the coin from his fingers. “Thank you, Grandpapa!”

“You are most welcome, Danielle.” He squeezed her and kissed her gently on the forehead.

Her mother and grandmother smiled at the scene. “She’s been practicing all morning. She couldn’t wait to tell him, kept repeating it the whole drive over.”

Grandmama nodded knowingly. “They have a special bond, those two. She means the world to him, you know. And so do you.”

“I know, Mom. He’s always been there for her, unlike some people.”

“So, Michelle, where is Jack today?” Grandmama failed in her attempt to sound nonchalant.

“I’m not sure. He didn’t come home last night. Not that that’s necessarily a bad thing.”

Most people would have missed Michelle’s slight flinch at the sound of his name, but not her mother. “Is he…” she started to ask, but stopped herself. “Your father went out last night with some of his old war buddies, but he was home by midnight to kiss me.”

Michelle ignored the jab and responded to the unfinished question with a shake of her head. “He’s under a lot of stress. He’s a sweet man when he isn’t drinking.”

Grandmama fought to keep her own anger down. This was supposed to be a happy time, celebrating the New Year with family. Arguing with Michelle about her abusive husband had nearly ruined Christmas. “We just worry about you and Danielle, that’s all. Lord knows what Grandpapa would do if anything ever happened to you or her.”

“Jack would never hurt her, Mother.” She sounded confident, but her eyes betrayed a glimmer of doubt. “Or me,” she added belatedly.

Grandmama turned away. She recalled only too vividly the bruises on Michelle’s arms and the marks on her face that makeup didn’t entirely conceal. Long sleeves and sunglasses had become standard apparel for her.

She silently thanked God that Jack had stayed out all night. The last time he had been to their house, Jack and Grandpapa had nearly come to blows. The echoes of Grandpapa’s quiet threat still echoed in her mind. “Jack, if you ever hurt either of them again, I’ll kill you.”

In the living room the discussion had turned from magic and money to the Berthier rifle proudly displayed above the cheery fireplace. “Does it still shoot, Grandpapa?”

“No, ma chérie, it does not.”

She smiled at the game. This conversation had been repeated on nearly every visit. “Because the Huns went away, right Grandpapa?”

“Yes, the Huns have gone away.”

In a sudden departure from the script, she pointed at the antique weapon. “Where’s the knife, Grandpapa?”

“The bayonet, you mean? I had to take it off to polish it. Can’t let it get rusty, can we?”

“So why didn’t you put it back on?”

“I guess I just forgot. Don’t you want to hear about how Grandpapa helped drive the Huns out of France?”

“Were the Huns bad men, Grandpapa?” The seriousness of her tone brought a look of concern to his face. He knew where this was going.

“Not all of them, but many were bad men, yes.”

“Like my Daddy?”

A rush of emotion choked him before he could respond. Instead he hugged the little girl close to him and stroked her hair. Eventually he whispered, “You don’t have to worry about him anymore, Danielle.”

One of my New Year's resolutions is to write down all the family stories that I can remember, so that you young'uns can learn what this family of ours has achieved. We're entitled to be right proud of ourselves. It seems fitting, then, it being New Year's and all, to start with my Great Grandpappy Verne Crockett. You'll understand why it's fitting when I get done, if you pay attention.

Great Grandpappy Verne was born in the Republic of Texas in 1838. He was smart as a whip. He went off to the University of Mississippi--Texas had become a state by then, but only just, and anyways the University of Texas didn't get started until twenty years after the War of Northern Aggression was over. Ole Miss was the closest place Great Grandpappy Verne could go to get schooled. He wanted to get rich, so he studied chemistry, and explosives in particular, because he figured that there was always money to be made in the munitions business.

He was more than a mite enthralled with explosives. This was back in the days before dynamite, remember, and folks still used black powder to blow stuff up, and nitroglycerin, straight up. It was a dangerous business, which was why Verne had friends who were hard of hearing, and who had names like "Stumpy." Verne really loved the business, as risky as it was. He had scruples, though, and since scruples weren't a good thing for a munitions tycoon to have, he turned to fireworks. He was good at it, as you can imagine, which is why our family still makes the best fireworks in Texas, if not in the whole USA.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

On New Year's Eve in 1857, Verne Crockett consumed the better part of a bottle of sour mash with his friend, Jim Beam, at their boarding house at Ole Miss. The war was looming large, and Verne was having a moral crisis over getting schooled in providing the means for his countrymen to kill each other. Jim was similarly conflicted about joining his family's business, which he thought of as helping folks drink themselves to death. Verne and Jim kept drinking and rambling on about the woefulness of their respective futures, until both of them passed out in a stupor.

Now, I heard the rest of this directly from my Grandpappy Wilbur Crockett, may he rest in peace, who heard it from his daddy Verne, so I know it's right, as strange as it all sounds. You can look it up; it's all true.

Verne had a dream that New Year's morning. More of a journey, actually. He found himself carried back in time, all the way back to the Ming Dynasty in China 350 years earlier. He woke up under a tree outside of a palace, and was promptly found by soldiers and brought to meet the local nobleman, Wan Hu, who was the explosives advisor to Emperor Zhu.

Verne stayed with Wan Hu for nearly a month. You might think there'd be a language barrier, but I reckon that "Boom!" means the same thing all over the world. Verne learned more about pyrotechnics in that month than he had in three years of classes at Ole Miss, and he taught Wan Hu a few things, too.

Wan Hu got it in his head to fly into space on a skyrocket. Verne kinda wanted to see that happen, so he helped Wan Hu make the largest rockets the Chinese had ever seen, made by tamping black powder into hollow bamboo logs, wound with rope. Verne showed them how to wet down the black powder before it was tamped, so that it would be nice and consistent, and he showed them how to get the mix right and make better nozzles for longer range.

Wan Hu decided to make his flight on the first day of the Chinese New Year. He sat in a big wicker chair, on top of forty-seven of the best rockets that Verne could make, and commanded that the fuses be lit. There was an enormous bang, and a blinding flash, and the rockets and the chair and Wan Hu all just plumb disappeared. Of course, that's also when Verne woke up from his dream, to find himself back in Oxford, Mississippi on New Year's Day 1858, with Jim Beam sound asleep beside him.

That dream happened 150 years ago tonight, and it was the turning point in Great Grandpappy Verne's life. His New Year's resolution was to disavow munitions work, and to dedicate his life instead to the development of pyrotechnics for the entertainment of humanity. When he graduated the following year, he founded Crockett Fireworks, and set us on the path we're still following today. Jim Beam? He decided to stay in his family's business; they still make some mighty fine bourbon.

Oh, one more thing: On his way home to Texas from Oxford that spring, Verne met a riverboat pilot named Sam Clemens and told him all about his dream. Sam Clemens, of course, twisted the story all around, moved it to England, put a Yankee in it instead of Verne, and published it as his own many years later. Some say it was the beginning of the end of Clemens' career. Serves him right. He shoulda stuck to telling stories about real people, like I'm telling you now.

The puke-green pleather of the barstool knows me.

After years of almost constant contact with my backside, I have come to count it as one of my most constant companions in life, and surely the most loyal. It knows my habits. At the start of the night, it bolsters me up, knowing how I love to sit ramrod straight and scald my throat with glass after glass of 100 proof Southern Comfort.

Night after night, it’s always Southern Comfort.

As the evening progresses though, the pleather cushion knows how I like to slide down in my seat, and prop myself up unsteadily on my elbows. It cradles me the remainder of the evening, my hand limply curled about that last half-full glass as Lou Reed croons to me about all tomorrow’s parties that I will never attend.

Tonight is barely different. The bar is still dusty. The windows are still caked with grime. Dead insects of unknown origin still pepper the corners of the room. The typical detritus of the corporate world is still swaying forlornly on their stools, and those two prostitutes are sitting in their usual booth, steeling themselves for another night’s work.

Tonight though, my beloved bartender Eli has a pin on his smock.

Between the smoke in the room and the dull warmth of the drink festering behind my eyes, it’s way too hazy now to discern the infuriatingly loopy little purple and gold script on the pin. I remember what it said when I came in though:

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

Eli needs to take off the pin. It’s idiotic. I decide to tell him as much.

I unstick my face from my palm.

“Hey, Eli. What’s up with the pin?”

He gives me that pandering look. The look where you can tell he’s trying to phrase his response in a simple enough sentence for me to comprehend on the first go-around. I hate that look. I despise it with every fiber of my being.

“It’s New Years Eve.” He answers, the start of a chuckle trailing off into the grimy air.

I am unamused.

“Take it off dude. It’s a dumb pin.”

Eli casts a piteous little half-smile my way as he runs a grubby rag over the counter.

“Lighten up man. 2007’s going to be over in just a few hours. I know the last year hasn’t been too kind to ya’, but think of it as a fresh start. You know, wipe the slate clean and all that.”

Eli throws me a wide grin and a nod, evidently satisfied that I am duly inspired and motivated by his little speech and the promise of the brand new year to come.

Sometimes Eli can be a bit of an idiot.

Sure, it’s a new year, but what does that mean? Other than the fact that my face will further relent to gravity and sag off the bones of my skull a bit more, it’s just the same as the year before it. No Publisher’s Clearing House representative is going to come knocking at my door to hand over some flowers and a few million. Pretty girls won’t suddenly find an inexorable attraction to me. My truck will not fix itself. My ex will not have an epiphany. I will not find Jesus.

Nothing will change.

Eli looks over at me, eyebrows raised. “Refill?”

Why does he even ask?

I watch the liquid roil and settle into my glass. It sits there and gazes at me, its amber eyes winking merrily with the light of the yellow bulb in the softly swaying lamp above.

People like to fool themselves, I guess. It’s the only reason I can think of for all the festivities and merriment that mark the induction of the New Year. They like to think that the New Year will lend some intangible cosmic aid to each of them.

Morons.

The New Year isn’t new at all. It’s just a year, fetid and rank with misery and false hope just like the innumerable other years that came before it. In fact, it seems to me that the term “New Year” is nothing more than willing self-deception to a lot of the morons out there. The year didn’t get dry cleaned, and it didn’t get a fresh coat of paint. A new year is nothing but a continuation of a crappy existence. The date on a calendar won’t change that—won’t erase your errors or realize your hopes. Won’t do anything but mock the fact that you’re one year closer to death.

The fireworks start to pop and fizzle merrily outside the filthy window. After fighting its way through the grime caked onto the glass, the electric colors of the sparks are muted and dirty.

I drag my head up from it’s resting spot on my forearm.

Eli’s looking out the window, his dishrag carelessly wiping the same spot over and over. He’s got the most ridiculous look on his face— enraptured with those stupid little sunbursts and rockets like each one’s pure magic.

“Just take a look at ‘em…” he mutters, absolutely in awe.

“Eli,” I grouse “It’s just fire… little balls of flying fire. Nothin’ special.”

He cast another of those looks my way, those looks that I hate so much. This time though, he gives up on responding with words and makes do with a sad little shoulder slump. I hate those too.

I give a burbling sigh and sink a little further into my stool.

The puke-green pleather cradles me.

Six years of planning. Ten billion dollars invested. December 31, 2007 — the final day of freedom for the human race. There was no turning back now.

At the controls of a skyscraper-sized killer robot, Melvin Ellison checked his watch: 11:00 p.m. He ran a final diagnostic check, and took up the control stick. Beneath him, the titanic machine he had dubbed "Mel-Bot" thrummed to life. Its massive arms flexed. The laser cannons mounted atop its shoulders swiveled into attack position. It was time.

Throughout his 27 years of life, Melvin Ellison had been bullied mercilessly. His classmates teased and taunted him. His parents threw away the TV set, insisting that Melvin study math and science for six hours a day. His teachers harangued him: "Melvin, you have an IQ of 175. You could have been in college at the age of 13, and yet you refuse to complete assignments and you flunk tests intentionally. What are we going to do with you?"

"Leave me alone," Melvin had said. He just wanted to sit in his room and build robots — robots to fetch his soda for him, robots to fold his laundry, robots to straighten up his bookshelves. He wanted to be left alone, but nobody had listened.

They would listen now.

Melvin had amassed an enormous fortune designing top-secret technology for the military forces of foreign governments. He had invested this wealth into the building of an army of his own, a legion of giant remote-control robots that would aid him in his plans for total world domination.

Melvin throttled the control stick forward, and the monstrous Mel-Bot emerged from the midtown Manhattan warehouse in which it had been secretly constructed. Melvin smiled at the sound of screaming pedestrians and skidding tires far below as the behemoth made its way toward Times Square.

For what better place to stage a hostile takeover of the free world? Television cameras around the country would be pointed at the lighted ball as it dropped the curtain on 2007. Melvin trembled with anticipation as buildings trembled all around him, windows breaking and car alarms squealing as the robot's colossal feet churned up the pavement far below.

At a quarter past eleven, the machine thundered onto a chaotic scene: bright lights, a blizzard of confetti, and thousands of revelers gathered around the One Times Square building, cheering and whistling as they prepared to usher in 2008. The peals of song and laughter turned to screams as Mel-Bot marched into view, flattening a police car and knocking a bus out of the way like a child's toy.

"People of Earth," Melvin Ellison announced over the robot's built-in loudspeaker. "For years I have been laughed at and tormented, but tonight, the final laugh is mine. Even as we speak, a battalion of giant robots positioned around the globe awaits deployment at my command. When I give the signal, they will attack and subdue all the governments of the world. From London to Moscow, from Tokyo to Berlin, from Beijing to Sydney and everywhere in between, my army will crush all who oppose me."

To emphasize his point, Mevin punched a few buttons on the control panel in front of him. The robot reached over to the top of One Times Square and wrapped its steel claws around the lighted geodesic sphere that was the famous New Year's Eve ball, crushing it like a walnut and sending thousands of energy-efficient Phillips LED lights and shards of Waterford crystal showering onto the horrified onlookers below.

"I am unstoppable!" Melvin's voice roared across Times Square. "Flee in terror before me!"

Unfortunately for Melvin, he had miscalculated. The sight of the Ball's demise at the hands of this mechanical monstrosity galvanized them ... fear was replaced by anger ... and before Melvin knew what was happening, a seemingly endless swarm of New Yorkers was surging over Mel-Bot's legs like fire ants, knocking it off balance.

"Stop that!" Melvin bellowed as the robot rocked and swayed like a tall building buffeted by gale-force winds. "Stop at once, I demand it! I demand obedience!"

They flowed over the robot's feet like living water. They clambered up its legs, hammering at its metal carapace with whatever they could get their hands on. Cameras and iPods and anything else that could be thrown flew through the air, bouncing off its steel frame.

"I demand obedience!" Melvin wailed unhappily as the immense robot teetered, lost its balance altogether, and went tumbling to the street with an enormous crash.

It is a credit to the fine men and women of the New York Police Department that Melvin Ellison wasn't pulled from the cockpit and torn limb from limb by the irate mob. After restoring order, they packed him into a squad car and carted him off to jail at the same time the President was signing an emergency order to find and dismantle the robots that Melvin had stationed all around the world, silent and inactive, awaiting a command that would never be given.

And it is a credit to the Times Square Alliance that with minutes to spare, they secured Mel-Bot's badly dented head to a pole at the top of One Times Square, and lowered it as the chanting crowd counted down the final seconds of the year.

"Four ... three ... two ... one ..."

The robot's eyes lit up, and confetti streamed from its ears.

"Happy New Year!"

The sun came up at about six on New Year's Day, but it was still dark. The rain was coming down hard. There would be mud everywhere when they got back. He threw off his sleeping bag and sat up on his cot. He felt the pain in his lower back as he stretched. Sometimes it went away, sometimes it stuck around. He knew it would stick around today. It was going to be that kind of day, he could already tell.

She was out of the house and with her friends at nine. She offered to drive but was refused. They said she could use a drink, especially tonight. His dog tags stopped rattling after they were tucked under her sweater. She broke down twice while getting ready and did not want to do it again. They said going downtown would get her mind off of things, she felt a pang of guilt for wanting to believe them.

He put the gun up in the turret and checked it to make sure he could traverse. Despite the rain the guys were in a good mood, cracking dirty jokes and making lewd comments about the female lead in the movie they watched last night. He couldn't remember her name, but laughed along with them. Finally, everyone was mounted up and the trucks were rolling. "Berserker Base, this is Berserker Seven, SP Fob Punisher zero eight hundred hours, three victors, fifteen packs."

Eleven came and she was miserable. Everyone was was happy and laughing and carrying on without a care in the world. The bar was packed, the TV counting down to the new year. She wondered what he was doing.

Between the rain and the trash no one could have seen it. The blast flattened two tires and spider-webbed the windshield and two windows. Berserker Seven got an up from everyone but his gunner. After the dust cleared, he knew why. A copper slug formed by the explosion blew his brains out. The soldier sitting in the rear passenger seat flicked small pieces of gray matter off of him before getting out and establishing security. Berserker Seven picked up the hand mic. "Beserker Base, Beserker Seven, we've been hit by an IED, time zero nine hundred hours, one KIA, stand by for the battle roster number..."

She looked up at the flashing "Happy New Year" on the TV and finished her drink.

"Happy New Year, sweetheart."

The party was in full swing and you could just tell something was going to get very messy. You could feel it in the atmosphere. Everyone was acting like they were having fun but there was this bad vibe just simmering under the surface and the heat was just making it worse. 30ºC at 3am with fifteen of us left in the flat – no fan, windows open, rapidly running out of booze and ice. It was a recipe for trouble but everyone had reached that level of drunkenness where trouble disappears off the radar and find yourself with a bunch of people in a room acting like they’ve got nothing to live for in the morning but everything seems funny anyway.

We were all at Damo’s place: the night started well, but everyone was smashed before midnight and you could see Damo was getting all edgy. But being his mates and everything we were trying to cheer him up given the circumstances. We thought we were doing the right thing by keeping a drink in his hand – his girlfriend left him three days before Christmas for another guy, and he was really, really into her. He was absolutely shattered. To make things worse, he'd already arranged to spend Christmas with her at her parents place and he couldn’t get a flight to see his own parents at such short notice. He ended up staying home by himself, having to put up with the noise of everyone around him having a good time. I’d invited him to my place but he was being all sour grapes about it. At least I tried. So when he texted us all about having New Year’s at his place we rallied ‘round despite the weather and tried to give him something to look forward to in the New Year.

As 3:30 approached the temperature finally started to fall with the first drops of heavy rain, and Damo’s mood turned dramatically. The guy from Flat 5 next door had just got home with some of his mates, and you could hear them shouting and laughing as they came up the stairs; one of the guys poked his head through the open door and yelled happy New Year and Damo just cracked. I don’t think any of us had seen him so angry before and at the time it seemed funny, like he was mucking around, but that just made it worse. We all knew he didn’t get along with Sam, the guy next door – he used to play music real loud all the time, get boisterous with the ladies and it all echoes through the walls – but Sam was the landlord’s son; there was nothing he could do.

Before anyone realised what was happening, Damo was out the door and screaming at his neighbours on the landing. It took us a moment to realise how serious it was and those of us not passed out rushed outside. By the time I got out the door, Damo and Sam were sizing each other up, pushing each other around in the rain, like back when you’re in high school. Just a bit of push and shove. Then Sam said, “Yeah, and she loved every minute of it. Said she’d never had it so good,” and Damo absolutely lost it. Before anyone had registered, Damo’s fist flew up and Sam just crumpled. He must have been out cold before he fell, and there was this crack as his head hit the banister. Everyone froze, shocked, and some of the girls started screaming. Me and some of the other guys had to jump in to hold Damo back, ‘cause he was still laying into him as he lay bleeding on the concrete, a horrible pink-and-bloody wound on the side of his skull.

It wasn’t until the police and ambulance turned up I realised Damo had hit me too. I was so drunk and it all happened so fast that I didn’t even feel it ‘til I realised my nose was bleeding. I said I didn’t want to press charges, but the police said it wasn’t an option: he was in enough trouble already, they’d probably withdraw the lesser assault charge in court, but they’d have to put it through the books anyway. The detectives were really nice, not at all like I imagined. They took us all aside, one by one, got us glasses of water and everything, assured us everything was going to be alright; all the while, police photographers were busy with the watery bloodstains on the balcony, recording for eternity what Damo took seconds to cause.

Maybe it was the beer sitting heavily in my stomach, but I felt sick like I’d never felt sick before. By the time it was all over and the taxi had dropped me home, the rain had stopped but I was cold and shaking. I could hear the birds singing outside and no matter how closely I pulled the curtains the first rays of light still managed to invade the lounge room. I collapsed on the couch and after switching my phone off I switched the television on; I didn’t even register the footage of fireworks and celebrations across the globe before I fell into a deep, dead sleep.

I remember my Grampa to be a big, strong, loving man. He was a handyman and a farmer who was well known for his Carpentry and woodworking skills. He would sit with me and play with my Barbie Dolls and my Jane and Johnny West action figures. We would pretend they were camping and stack Crayola Crayons up as a bon fire for them.

The year I was 7, I had been relentless in my quest to have him build me a doll house for my Barbie collection. Not any doll house would do. It would have to be one that had the head room to allow Barbie and her friends stand comfortably. I also required that it have an attached barn so that Jane and Johnny West could “park” their horses close to the house when they came to visit. All year, my grandfather told me to have patience. He didn’t think he could make it for me that year because he had other obligations. I didn’t let up in my pursuit to have the best doll house on the block.

Christmas was coming soon and I bragged to all of my friends that I would have the most beautiful house and they would all be invited to come and play with it. My grandfather continually told me to not make promises I couldn’t deliver on. He told me I would be disappointed when there was no house under the Christmas tree for me.

Finally, it was Christmas Eve. I was giddy with excitement. I was anticipating the best present ever. Who needs Santa, I thought, when you have the best grandfather in the world. I said as much to my grandfather. He gently sat me on his knee and said, “Sweetie, I did not make you a doll house for Christmas. I was too busy building furniture for your cousin and his wife.” I still didn’t believe him.

Finally, Christmas morning came. There was a huge, huge present for me under the tree and many smaller ones. The largest one was signed, “With love, from Grampa.” I decided to leave the largest one for last because in my heart, I knew for certain that it was the doll house I had requested.

I remember that particular year that the smaller gifts contained the bean bag doll that I had asked for, a timex watch with a black strap, a real emerald birthstone ring from my other set of grandparents, the obligatory socks, underwear and pajamas and others, which I have a hard time recalling now. I dragged out the opening of the other gifts because I knew, I just knew that my grandfather was just teasing me had made me the doll house.

Finally, all the other gifts had been opened and my stocking had been thoroughly checked out. I decided it was now time to open the doll house. I wanted to stretch the anticipation out as long as I could. I carefully untied the ribbon. Next, I picked off each piece of tape. I gently opened the gift wrap to find a big cardboard box. It had a picture on the front of the box but I disregarded the picture because I was certain that it was my doll house. I looked inside the giant box to find…a bicycle. It was a beautiful bike, mind you. It just was not my doll house. I started to cry. My grandfather looked at me and said, “You have to learn patience sweetie.” I looked at him and said,” I will never speak to you again.”

My grandfather’s eyes welled up and I heard him say quietly, “please excuse me.” He got up and left the room. I did not talk to him for the rest of that Christmas day, nor the days that were to follow.

Finally, on New Years Eve, I realized that I truly missed my grandfather. There had never been a time in my life when I had gone more that a day without seeing him. I picked up the telephone and called him. Finally, he picked up the phone. “I’m sorry, Grampa,” I said quietly into the phone, “I miss you, please come over and celebrate the New Year with me.” He started crying and said of course he would.

I waited for my grandfather to show up. Finally, he came through the door. In his arms was the most gorgeous doll house. He had been so sad that I was mad at him that he had spent the entire week making the doll house for me.

We spent that New Years Eve playing with my Barbie dolls and my Jane and Johnny West dolls. We “parked” the horses in the barn that he had lovingly attached to the side of the house. It was the best New Years Eve that I had in my life. The best I ever would have.

At 9:25 on New Years day, the telephone rang. I answered the phone and my uncle, gruffly said, “Put your dad on the phone.” I handed the telephone to my dad. I could only hear bits and pieces of the conversation. Finally, he hung up the telephone.

Within minutes, I could hear my mom wailing. I had never heard her cry like that before. I thought she would never stop. The wailing finally subsided and my dad came to my room. He looked ashen. I shouted, “Happy New Year, daddy!” He grabbed me and hugged me and said, “Your grandfather has passed away.”

My daughter still plays with the doll house.

The old grandfather clock in the reception chimed for 11 O’Clock and Charles Reighton walked down the stairs as if he was heading a funeral procession. The dim light from candles flickered on his face as he entered the darkness of the livingroom. To his left, barely noticeable, stood three photograph frames holding the precious moments from the previous year. In the largest of the three was Charles with his arm around a beautiful brunette. Charles picked up the brunette and took her to the furthest corner of the room.

In the darkness of the remote corner Charles sat down, pulled out a lighter and lit a tall, thin candle on the table to his right. The small flame burst into life and Charles’s rugged, weary face slowly heaved a sigh. He picked up a bottle of Connemara and poured it into a short, thick glass. The aroma of the liquid, which he preferred to call nepenthe, swung wildly around the room. The thick, sweet smell pierced his nose as the bottle finally stopped glugging. ‘Cheers’ he said to the photograph.

He placed his glass down on the table to his right and looked deeply at the photograph in his hand. He stared questioningly at the brunette as his mind slowly drifted off to the instant of capture.

‘Cheers,’ the brunette said. ‘So Charles, this year has been fantastic. I never imagined we’d have made it this far, twenty-two years and we still have plenty of go left.’ As she said this, the brunette put her slim, tender arms around Charles’s neck while her lips embraced his; while in the background some young band were blaring out rock ballads.

‘You, my dear Cara, you are the coat-hanger of my life. No, no, listen,’ Charles slurred, trying not to let Cara interrupt his moment, ‘you dig deep inside me; you support me. Without you I’d be a crumpled rag on the corner. Ti amo, mio Cara cara. Speaking of crumpled rags, here’s Peter. Hey, hey Peter come over here a minute; me and my darling wife would like to speak to you.’

A small, youthful middle-aged man pushed his way through the thicket of bodies. He approached with his arm out ready to greet Charles, Charles on the other hand pushed Peter’s arm away and embraced his with a warm, drunken hug. ‘Hi Cara; Hi Charles.’ Peter chuckled. ‘Congratulations, I can’t believe it’s been that long. Twenty-two years! Well, as you know, me and Marie barely lasted five. You two have been blessed, you know that? I always was…’ Peter was cut off as the crowd began counting down.

‘Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five.’ The lights went out and the crowd roared the final digits with a euphoric passion, ‘Four. Three. Two. One. Happy New Year!’ Greetings were handed out all around the room and Charles embraced Cara and Peter wishing them both a Happy New Year amid the tune of Auld Lang Syne.

A loud bang was heard at the front of the room followed by a deafening spray of bullets and screams. In the darkness the crowd blindly ran around, scratching and pushing one another. Charles immediately grabbed Cara’s hand and ran towards the side exit, Cara in turn grabbed Peter and the three ran towards the exit. Suddenly a weight pulled on Charles’s arm causing him to fall backwards. When Charles landed on the floor he turned his head towards Cara. Blood was pouring out of her neck and she gagged as if she was drowning. Charles gagged as well as he tried to hold off tears with the hope that she would survive. She tried to speak ‘Cha…Char.’ It was no use her throat was pooled with too much blood. Charles spun around and pulled her in close to his chest, kissing her forehead. Cara looked up at Charles trying to smile and then her whole body went limp and rolled back on to the floor. Charles pulled in her fresh, warm corpse and finally burst out in tears.

The grandfather clock struck 12 O’Clock and from the cold window on the opposite side of the room red and green lights poured into the room. Explosions battled with the cheers of a thousand people for vocal supremacy. The crowds began to sing in almost perfect harmony. The familiar tune raised the hairs on the back of Charles’s neck as he took his glass and sipped the sweet whisky.

Charles reached into the drawer in the table and pulled out a leather box and placed it carefully upon his knee. His weak hands flipped the latch and pushed the lid open. Inside was an old Webley revolver, still shining and already loaded. Charles lifted the weapon out of its container as if it was a holy relic. With the revolver daintily held in his right hand Charles made it do a little dance in mid air as he hummed with the crowd to the tune of Auld Lang Syne. ‘Perhaps next year; I’m sorry Cara, my darling, but we’ll have to wait a little longer till we meet again. Perhaps I’ll give Peter a knock and see how he’s doing.’

With that, Charles stood up and walked out of the livingroom, put on his coat and shoes and opened the door. The cold air and the warm sound of the crowd pulled him out as he shut the door behind himself.

The sign flashes: Dec 31, 2029, 8:17am, 52° F, 12°C, over and over.

“My name is. . . what? How can I not know my own name? Where am I? Some city, looks like it’s big; large, very tall buildings in every direction. People everywhere, dressed in grey jumpsuits, a sea of grey. No wait , there’s a red one. And over there a blue one. I look at what I’m wearing. Grey jumpsuit. Where am I? Why can’t I remember? Every question my mind forms hits a blank wall.”

“Hello Doc.”

The man speaking to me is small, dressed in the same grey jumpsuit, and much older than I am, I think. Except. . .

“How old am I?” Another blank wall.

“Follow me, Doc, stay back about twenty feet, somebody’s probably watching you. Just keep your eyes on this piece of red ribbon on my collar. We’re going about six blocks in that direction.”

With that, the man turns and walks away, down the street, and disappears into the mass of grey bodies.

“Who was he? Who’s probably watching? Where did he go?

There he is, the crush of bodies parts a little and I can see him now, walking away. He called me Doc. Was I a doctor? A doctor of what? He obviously knows me, so I follow, hoping he has more answers.”

“In here, Doc.”

The man suddenly appears in a doorway beside me and I follow him into a darkened hallway, up some stairs, another hallway and through a door, indistinguishable from other doors that appear randomly along the walls. Through a room and out onto a fire escape, down a flight and across a makeshift bridge into another building, down more stairs and out onto a different street. Much fewer people here. We get into a vehicle and drive off. The man has a syringe and sticks me with it before I can react.

Blackness

I regain consciousness in a very large room, maybe a building, dressed in a black jumpsuit this time. In front of me is a table with some kind of machine with a view screen and a keypad.

“Sorry about the needle, Doc, but I couldn’t take any chances of you being found. I had to knock you out and search you for homers and mikes.”

“You know, for as bad as it is, that stasis stuff is amazing, you haven’t aged a bit! I bet you’ve got a million questions. All the answers are here. I hope.”

The man holds up a small square piece of black plastic.

“This is called a zip disk, Doc. It’s yours, you gave it to me 40 years ago for safekeeping until you returned. You’ve been in stasis jail all this time, and your memory has been picked clean and erased.”

“What does this do?”

“Stick that plastic thing in that slot there, uh, that side up and let’s see.
Sit down here, Doc, and push that button, I think you’re going for a ride down memory lane.”

That’s exactly what happens for the next twelve hours.

I am Dr. Nathaniel LeClerc, a biophysicist, with secondary doctorates in Astrophysics, Quantum Physics and Exotic Metallurgy.

In 1985, while employed at CalTech in Pasadena, I secretly constructed a self-energizing time machine in an outbuilding behind my home. It was capable of moving forward and backward in time and point to point simultaneously, and I used it extensively to explore many past events, and the future of mankind.

The future is not pretty, so I won’t go into many details here, suffice it to say, that I would not want to be alive around 2055 and beyond. The dead will be the lucky ones. I did use future knowledge to amass a sizeable fortune in my present and deposited it, all as bullion, in the past. The military of 1987 found out about my machine and intended to use it as a weapon. To prevent this, I sent my machine into the future, safe from them and was arrested for destruction of government property - never mind that it was my personal project. I had seen my arrest was unavoidable, so I did the next best thing and prepared for my release date.

While I was in stasis, the military constructed a replica of my machine designed from the memories in my brain. Apparently they missed something, the design was flawed and while it did indeed travel through time, it ripped holes in space/time as it went and much was destroyed by it. While my machine could move controlled and safely through time, their machine randomly transported far and wide across the universe as it moved through time, wreaking havoc on other galaxies and solar systems and attracting unwanted attention from civilizations we weren’t even aware of. It will finally return to earth and manage to destroy itself and us. Or what will be left of us.

Today is December 31, 2029, 11:25 pm. I was released from prison today, I’ve regained my mind and remembered your future today. My machine is due to appear in five minutes and I’m off to 1880 Paris and my beloved Claire.

Surprisingly, it seems that I’m my own grandfather.

As for the rest of you, first contact with the Yumaloks from Andromeda’s Beta Quadrant occurs tomorrow afternoon at 3:10 near Marseilles. The French surrender immediately.

Goodbye and Good Luck to you all - it’s not going to be a happy new year for very long.