December 28th. Another year down.

"…thoughts turn to new beginnings and new resolutions…"

I flipped the channel away from the late night news. I didn't want to hear another overly-perky news anchor talk about how yearly resolutions could change life for the better. What did they know? Their resolutions didn't go any deeper than the three extra pounds they'd gained since Thanksgiving.

There was a movie playing on the next channel. The Bucket List. Watching two old men preparing to die matched my mood.

Two hours later I was jealous of the old men. Especially of the one who'd died. He didn't have to worry about a nasty boss or vindictive mother-in-law. He didn't have to listen to Sharon's high-pitched whine drift over from the next cubicle, or have Larry grab his butt in the elevator. A bucket list wouldn't help me die happy. Maybe if my mother-in-law kicked the bucket…

I froze. Adrenaline surged through my body, shocking me into action.

That was what I needed. A Kick the Bucket list. I grabbed a piece of paper and started to write.

Boss. Mother-in-law. Larry. Sharon. The mechanic who'd charged me $749 to not fix my car. The boyfriend who'd humiliated me when I was 19.

I paused after a minute and looked at my list. Eleven names. I thought for a moment and added another. It was the perfect New Year's resolution. One person per month.

I felt energized for the first time in years. It would be a challenge. It would take planning and precision. But if I stuck to my resolution, my life would change dramatically. I would have that new beginning the news anchors talk about.

Over the next couple of days, I carefully organized my Kick the Bucket list. I rated all of the members on Priority, Opportunity and Degree of Separation and used their scores to develop my schedule. Even at a one per month, the police might become suspicious if all of my high-priority resolutions were resolved up front.

With this tedious task complete, I started to plan for success. Murders are not very common in my mundane world, so I'd need to think outside of the box. I poured myself a glass of wine and let my creativity fly.

A mere hour later I had more "accidental deaths" than I could use in ten years. I topped off my wine and settled down to match method to member. It was strangely soothing when I found each person's ideal combination.

By January 1st my planning was complete. I lovingly committed my plans to memory, savoring every tiny detail. Then I threw everything into the fire and watched as all evidence burned away. Better safe than sorry.

My dear mother-in-law was first. I'll admit that I was nervous. But at the same time I felt invigorated and alive. It was a new year and I was finally taking control of my life.

She wasn't suspicious when I stopped by with a freshly baked pound cake - she was too busy complaining. I heard for the millionth time about how her "poor Bobby" had to suffer because of my lack of organization, terrible cooking and general laziness. Of course, that didn't stop her from immediately eating two big pieces of cake. You'd think a diabetic would know better. She was still complaining when I excused myself to go to the restroom. Her insulin was on the counter, where it always was. It took only seconds to draw off half of the nearly-full bottle and replace it with an equal amount of sterile saline. Then I was back in the kitchen listening to a detailed inventory of my many flaws.

Nobody, not even her doctor, was surprised when they found her the next morning. Only one piece of cake remained, a silent tribute to her devoted daughter-in-law.

My resolution was tougher to carry out in February. I hadn't seen Jeremy since that terrible day when I was 19. I set up a Facebook account under a classmate's name and was pleasantly surprised when he "friended" me. It didn't take long to discover that Jeremy was addicted to Facebook and used it to share every detail of his life. Including his severe allergy to shellfish.

It's amazing how much I learned through my resolution. Without Jeremy, I'd have never learned about the liquid shellfish concentrate that's bringing joy to recreational fishermen everywhere. And I'd have never discovered the rich flavor it adds to a Bloody Mary, especially if you prefer them heavy on the vodka like Jeremy did.

The passing years hadn't changed him much. My heart beat faster when I spotted him in the bar. The old anger and humiliation mixed with fear that he'd recognize me and that my plan would be ruined. I didn't need to worry; he was focused more on the busty bartender than on the plain woman who slid onto the bar stool next to him. He leaned towards the bartender. I reached for the pretzels, my hand hovering for just a second above his drink. Nobody noticed the small eyedropper I clutched or saw the release of its precious contents. Pretzel in hand, I moved to another part of the bar and then quietly slipped away.

I was up early the next morning, anxiously searching the newspaper for news of Jeremy's untimely demise. More importantly, I wanted to see official cause of death.

"…severe anaphylactic shock from a known seafood allergy…"

The world seemed to slow. My mind raced, searching for anything that could be traced to me. My eyes continued reading the article.

"…due to cross-contamination in the bar kitchen."

I felt as light as a feather. The bitterness that I'd harbored for years evaporated. Suddenly, anything seemed possible. I tackled my resolution with renewed vigor.

The next three months were glorious. In March, Sharon ate a salad contaminated with botulism and our cubicles became a quiet haven of bliss. In April, my former mechanic was careless with a battery charger and suffered an unfortunate shocking experience. May brought spring breezes and sent Larry into the woods looking for chanterelles. Sadly, he confused them with the toxic Jack O Lantern mushroom and was done in by his culinary efforts. I wore his favorite dress to the funeral.

In June, the rumors started.

First I noticed the strange looks, second glances as I walked by. Then came the classic hush, the silence that occurs when you enter a room where you are the topic of conversation. I really started to worry when I heard the conversations in the ladies' room.

Somebody had noticed my connection to all of the recent accident victims.

Thanks to my resolution, my life was better than ever. How could these people start such terrible rumors? The police reports were official, the cases were closed. They were all tragic accidents. The police said so. People could be so cruel.

I made the difficult decision to postpone June's resolution. That meant I'd have to play catch-up later in the year, but I wanted to give the rumors time to die down.

In July, the police reopened all of the investigations and named me a Person of Interest. My friends stopped calling. Bobby moved into his mother's old house. I was skipped over for the promotion at work.

The police can't find anything. I was too smart, too organized. But that isn't stopping them from calling me in every week. They show up at my house. They show up at work. People notice that kind of thing.

I was doing so well. They say it only takes 21 days to form a habit and that the first month of a resolution is the hardest. I made it through five months. Only seven more months and I'd have had the new beginning that the news anchor promised. It looks like I won't be getting my new life this year.

Maybe next year I'll do better.

I guess it started five years ago now. And I guess it started like so many of them do - too many drinks on New Year's Eve and the talk turned to what our New Year's resolutions were going to be. Well, this year, things were not the same.

You see, Garry had set himself a New Year's resolution the year before, and he had somehow stuck to it. So now, twelve months later, he was no longer a smoker. And that meant he set his sights on me, the only smoker left in our small social group.

"Your turn," he said suddenly.

"I don't want to," I replied casually.

"That's not what you said last winter when you had to go outside in the rain just for a puff," Mikey added.

"Yeah, well, it's not winter now, is it?" I was getting snappy.

"Leave him," Davo said. "He won't. He's gutless."

"I'll show you gutless," I growled without thinking. "I'll do it!"

And that was my New Year's Resolution - to give up smoking.

The first month, that was almost impossible. The second month, it got harder. My friends, the three of them, avoided me and let me do what I wanted. I felt alone. And so I did what so many before me had done - I replaced one addiction with another. That led me to the local pub and the amber fluid. I started to drink to give me a buzz and ease my frustration, relax myself. But drinking leads to more drinking, and that leads to getting drunker. And when you get drunk you lose your inhibitions.

The pub's atmosphere was smoky and as I drank more and more I missed having that smoke for myself. I could not resist temptation. The next morning I told myself it was one little lapse, not the end of the world.

New Year's Eve and we were sitting around. Again. "Man, you failed big time, didn't you?" Garry was laughing as he spoke.

"What?" I asked stupidly, already well on my way to being legless drunk.

"Giving up smoking."

"Yeah?" I snapped. "Well, I'll show you! I'll do it this year!" But I'm pretty sure the alcohol was putting words in my mouth.

"Be better if you stopped drinking so much," Davo muttered under his breath.

"Yeah?" I sneered. "Right! No smokes, no booze! Done!"

They just smiled at me.

That first month I was unbearable. My friends no longer associated with me, I was angry all the time, my work was suffering and I just felt like complete rubbish. I had never felt so low, but I was determined not to go back on my word, not this time. I was going to do what I had vowed I was going to do.

And one night on the way home from work I stopped at the local fast food franchise. Three hamburgers later and I was feeling better than I had in eighteen months. Why hadn't I tried this before? I asked myself. This was great! And sure enough, things sure did improve for me. My friends welcomed me back into the fold and I was even promoted at work. I felt happy and jolly and we often joked that I kept the local franchise in business single-handedly.

It was June when things came crashing down. I had to buy a completely new wardrobe. I mean, everything. Even my belt didn't fit anymore. And, to make it worse, it had cost me almost an entire month's wages. I was not feeling too good about myself as I left that shop, my packages under my arms.

I caught sight of my reflection in the windows at the front of the store. In profile.

I froze.

Where had that stomach come from? And that saggy bottom? And those chins?! Not chin, chins, plural! I stopped and stared, seeing myself properly for the first time in I did not know how long. Depressed does not even begin to describe how I felt. There are no words to describe how I felt as I gazed at that stranger.

I ran a hand over my face and felt the jowls wobble beneath my touch. I needed something to make me feel better. Just a little something…

One beer turned into fifteen beers, and in that smoky pub I felt stupid just inhaling other people's smoke instead of my own. I had fallen, but it was only one night. I would feel better tomorrow and then everything would be all right again.

New Year's Eve. I stared at the half-full packet in front of me and the nearly empty beer bottle and then up at the men seated at the table. "Last ones," I smiled.

"Heard that before," Garry sighed.

"Be better if you lost a few kilos," Davo muttered under his breath.

"What?" I asked angrily.

"Look, mate," Mikey said as calmly as he could, "we're worried. I mean, look at you. You're a heart attack waiting to happen."

"Fine," I snapped. "No smokes, no booze, lose weight. Done."

No one said anything.

The withdrawal was shocking. It was worse than ever before, so much so that everything suffered. People even crossed the street just to avoid making eye contact with me. It came to a head in April. Mr Fillmore, my boss, called me into the office. I don't know what I said as he tried to explain the situation, but a reduced roster suddenly became unemployment benefits with four weeks' pay.

I could not cope, but I was also not going to go back down that slippery slope to the way I had been, and so I locked myself in my apartment and hid away from the world. That is, until the people from the government came and asked what I was doing about looking for another job, and letting me know in no uncertain terms that if I did not job hunt, unemployment benefits could well disappear.

Within two weeks they had found me a job in a canning factory. Most boring job I had ever had. I became even more sullen and dark. And my new boss, I believe, complained about me and so my government caseworker came to see how I was doing.

He took me out after work and even shouted me a meal. At the local fast food franchise. I could not refuse. I had forgotten just how damn good it all tasted and, on his expense account, I think I scoffed five burgers and more fries than I thought possible. He promised to look at my case, but made me promise to get to know my co-workers better.

The next night I followed them to the pub. And I hadn't noticed it before, but most of them were smokers.

I made an effort to see my friends again, and this time it took a little convincing for them to let me into their lives once more. But, even then, they were not overly courteous. I did not receive too many invitations. According to Mikey one night when he allowed me to see him, all I did was complain about my job. I whinged about everything. It was all I talked about as I drank and smoked and scoffed burgers.

New Year's Eve. I had been made to promise not to mention my job once. And so I just sat there in silence, watching my empty bottles gather in front me even as the cigarette packet emptied, my second plate of cheese-covered nachos being quickly consumed. I opened my mouth to speak.

"Don't bother," Garry said quickly. "Every time you make a resolution it comes back the next year with a new friend. I mean, first it was smoking. Then it was smoking and drinking. And then smoking, drinking and losing weight. Now it's smoking, drinking, losing weight and a new job! What next? No, I don't even want to think about it."

"Yeah," Davo muttered. "Don't want to deal with it."

Mikey just shook his head. I had never felt so unwanted in all my life.

Oh, but I did make a new New Year's resolution, there and then.

New Year's Eve, this past year. I've still got thirty pounds to go, but the weight's getting there. The smoking, that's gone. I drink socially only, and find it easy to stick to that. My new job in the accounts department of the canning factory has helped me meet a bunch of new people I have a lot in common with. And who are supporting me with my lifestyle adjustments.

And as I sat there with Steve, Ian and Phil, I realised that maybe that was the New Year's resolution I should have made the first time. I just needed some new friends.

It all started with a simple idea, really. One simple little resolution made to myself in my brother’s living room as we all counted down in sync with the old wood-laminate telly. Happy New Year! We raised our glasses of lukewarm sparkling wine and Father got up to pass a plate of twiggy sticks as we pretended to be enthused about the prospect of another year.

It was supposed to lead to better things, this resolution of mine. Things better than the khaki-green carpet and stained floral wallpaper of my brother’s bungelow. Things better than the miserable apartment I rented from Mrs. Flowersdale down the road. And although I knew it wouldn’t get my ex-wife back, I knew with just a little bit of self-improvement I could get somewhere.

How it had lead me to a cramped room at the back of a ball bearings factory with a car battery in my hands and an alcoholic tied to wooden chair, I shall never know.

“C’mon, man! I’m not asking you to attach it to any other part of ”˜im! Just his nostrils. Give ”˜im a bit of a jolt, is all.” Desmond was the one doing all the talking. He was my supervisor. My trainer. Bangers just stood behind me, arms crossed across his barrel of a chest and looking intimidating but I suppose that was his job. “’e knew the score; we gave ”˜im plenty of time to make the repayments. We gave ”˜im fair warning. Now he’s gotta face the consequences, and you, Derrick my good man, are the embodiment of those consequences . . .”

I couldn’t think of a word to say. I was frozen. I didn’t want to electrocute this sorry man whimpering in front of me; all I wanted do was be a little more assertive. That was my promise to myself as the fireworks spread across the screen and we half-heartedly sang Auld Lang Syne: this year, I would learn to be more assertive. That was why she left me, according to Gillian - she’d told me as much just four months earlier.

“You’re always such a push-over!” she had said to me. “You always say yes to everything, do what everyone tells you to do. You’re just so . . . so . . . obliging!”

She was on the verge of hysterics. I couldn’t understand why - we’d been shoe-shopping for the past three hours. I’d even bought her a nice lunch, finished with a slice of baked cheesecake that we shared. I didn’t care too much for it myself, but baked cheesecake had always been her favourite.

“You’ve never once - not once! - stood up for yourself in the five years I’ve known you, Derrick Hasen. Never! Not even stood up to me . . .”

“But Gillian darling, I would never want to make you unhappy,” I said in response. And it was true. I would do anything for her. She was my sweetheart, my queen - my reason for waking every morning and putting on a shirt and tie and enduring the working day, week after monotonous week.

She laughed bitterly at that. Shook her head and let her hair fall over her face and I saw a tear she tried to hide slip down her cheek. “You have no idea . . .” she muttered. “I know you didn’t want to go shopping with me, Derrick. I know you’d rather have stayed home to watch the cricket, but you came with me anyway. And I just don’t know if I like the idea of spending the rest of my life with someone who doesn’t have the guts to say what he really wants . . .”

As it turns out, Yes dear was the wrong answer to that.

So come January 2nd I took myself off to the bookshop on High Street in search of some wisdom. Surely, I thought, there would be some helpful advice to be found there. The store clerk suggested Confidence for Dummies in the self-help shelves but I didn’t like the sound of that. The business section seemed a little more useful. There was little sealing-the-deal to be done in inbound accounts but the lads in sales and marketing always seemed like the kind of guys who’d be able to handle themselves in any social situation. They seemed to have the right idea.

But it wasn’t a book that lead me prospect of having to pull another man’s teeth with pliers with an ex-boxer glowering down at me for encouragement. Oh no, it was something more innocuous than that. There by the till sat a collection of desk calendars, innocent little boxes promising a witty anecdote or a kitten for every day of the year. Normally I would take little notice of these but one caught my eye: A-Dare-a-Day, it said. 365 fun and crazy things to open your eyes and take you out of your comfort zone, it said. Well, I thought to myself, it was worth a shot . . .

And so I embarked on my year of self-discovery flush with new-year enthusiasm. Certainly, the dares were more fun than analysing my business competitors for nervous habits and eye contact: I played my first office prank and tried my hand at indoor rock-climbing and competitive Twister, activities which nearly had me hospitalised. I was even the owner of the ugliest lamp I could possibly find, courtesy of the local thrift shop and I secretly entertained the thought of Gillian”˜s reaction had I brought something like that home whilst we were married.

So by one March Sunday, a day on which I was invited to do something “completely unexpected”, I found myself flicking through the local paper over breakfast to find a copy of the absurd personal ad placed the week before (a Wednesday dare). My eyes quickly scanned the tiny text in neat narrow columns until they fell suddenly on a few simple, enticing words: STAFF WANTED - LOCAL FINANCIAL FIRM SEEKS ASSERTIVE INDIVIDUAL FOR OUTSTANDING INVOICE RESOLUTION AND ASSET RECOVERY.

I handed in my notice that Monday morning and by the afternoon I was ushered by a large man in a suit into an office above a derelict shopfront on the other side of town.

“You having me on?” The man behind the desk wore shirtsleeves and tattoos down his arms and called himself the CEO.

“No, sir,” I replied.

“You’re an accountant, and you want work for me?”

The item he fiddled with in his fat stubby fingers seemed to be a flick knife; not a nervous habit, I decided. My mouth was dry but I had made my choice. “Yes, sir,” I nodded, adding: “I’m a very assertive individual.” Positive affirmations. That’s what the books said. Think positive; be a positive person.

He laughed, not to himself but at me. “Alright, alright then, Mr. Office-Attire, you got two weeks. Two weeks with Desmond and Bangers to prove yourself or you owe me your retainer and any commission the three of you earn - with interest.”

We shook and he squeezed my hand and pulled me close, hissing: “Don’t even think about trying to pull one over me, ’cause I’ll find you . . . “ and by the end of that day I had already collected repayments from three little old men with poor personal hygiene. It didn’t seem so bad. Desmond did the talking at first but by the third day he was letting me do the work. Bangers never said anything.

Things were going swimmingly until Friday. What started as a normal morning ended up with us snatching a poor degenerate off the street. This was not something I had reckoned for.

I was petrified. I was out of my comfort-zone, yes, but this was too far and Bangers kept looking down at me, fixing me with a stare that made my hands shake. By the time we’d tied the old wino up Desmond was lecturing me on the finer points of enforcing penalty for non-payment but I could hardly follow a word he was saying: my mind was a whirling mass of escape plans and raw fear.

I couldn’t slap him, this snivelling late-payer. I couldn’t whip him with a belt. I couldn’t even shout at him, much to Desmond’s disgust: I could barely even muster a single word, my throat was so tense.

“Well, I guess you’re not a hands-on fellow,” he said, handing me the battery. “Try this . . .”

Bangers took another step closer, so close behind me now I could feel his cold solid mass in the stale atmosphere of the room. The bare light bulb flickered above us and I thought about what Gillian would think if she saw me now and I thought about her last words to me . . .

I handed the battery back to Desmond. I was too obliging, she said. I said yes to everyone, she said. Well, not anymore - consequences be damned.

“Sorry, lads,” I said and walked away. Consequences be damned . . .

The gray Volvo stopped on the side of the narrow street, two wheels on the curb and two on the road. Chris yanked the key out of the ignition and gazed up at the building. It was a place he used to call his second home, and when he felt a prick of nostalgia he looked away and sighed. In the passenger seat, Jake was scratching viciously at his scalp; flakes of dandruff landed on the dashboard.

Chris said, “You’ve got five minutes.”

“In and out,” Jake said, still scratching. “Got it.”

“I mean it, though. If Shelley tries to make conversation, don’t start talking.”

“You mean you want me to ignore her?”

“No, don’t ignore her. Just don’t get all friendly.”

“Well, dude, it’s not like she’s my ex-girlfriend.”

“Whatever, man. You can talk. Just don’t be more than five minutes.”

“Okay, okay…”

Jake got out, walked across the parking lot and entered the building, Chris eyeing his every move. When he was out of sight, Chris reclined his seat and thought of the only thing he could think of, the cause of all this trouble: Shelley.

~ ~ ~

Two weeks ago, on New Year’s Eve, Chris made a resolution that was supposed to put his life back on track: He would finally forget about Shelley Robbins. It was supposed to be the real deal: no more desperate love letters, no more midnight phone calls, no more Shrine de Shelley set up in his pantry. He threw away every photograph and letter he’d collected over their four-year stint in a frenzy, smiling at the prospect of moving on from the six-month hell that the break-up had triggered.

But now his resolution was in danger, and he had gotten creative so that he could keep it alive. The source of the danger, though, was not Shelley herself, but the fish. Since the break-up, Shelley had insisted on taking care of Berty, the fish Chris bought her for their anniversary. But the other day Chris got an email from her that demanded that he come to her flat and pick up the fish within the next three days, no excuses.

And so, three days later, Chris stared at the drab ceiling of his Volvo and prayed that he would never have to feel that awful tinge of nostalgia ever again.

~ ~ ~

“Dude, we got a problem.” Jake’s voice was loud, too loud, and Chris pulled the phone away from his ear.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“You’d better come up here and see for yourself.”

“Jake, I told you. I’m not going up.”

“Dude, what’s the big deal? Shelley’s not even home.”

Chris sat up and thought about this. “You sure she’s not there?”

“The place is empty, dude. It’s not bad, either. If it were up to me, I’d be kicking it on the couch right now and watching the game. You think she has any beer?”

“I’ll be right up.” Chris hung up before he could tell Jake that no, absolutely not, there would not be beer-drinking or sports-watching in Shelley’s flat.

~ ~ ~

He found Jake standing ten feet away from the fish bowl as if he were at the scene of a murder.

“See for yourself, dude,” he said quietly.

Chris slowly prowled over, imagining every horrible thing he might see. When he finally did see the bowl, though, he did not scream or shed a tear. Nor did he pull his hair out or chuck the bowl out the window. What he saw wasn’t so much a surprise as it was predictable. So, instead of screaming, Chris sighed, crossed his arms like a parent whose kid stayed out past curfew, and said nothing.

“…You still going to take it?” Jake said when the silence became overwhelming.

“No. It’s her mess, she can sort it out on her own.”

“It smells funny.”

“I can tell, thanks.”

“Soon the whole place will start to smell.”

“I don’t care if the whole building smells!” Chris’s voice rose to a shout. “It’s her problem, she can take care of it! And she can pay me the money I spent on it, too. Two hundred bucks!”

“…Pretty ugly for two hundred,” Jake mumbled.

Chris stood at the bowl another minute, peering at the last thing he shared with Shelley, which was now a shriveled carcass drifting in circles at the waterline. After much thinking he decided to leave Berty where he found him, and he turned and started for the door. What stopped him in his tracks was Shelley, standing in the doorframe to her bedroom.

“What are you doing here, Chris?” she said.

He took a breath, if not to think then to delay the confrontation for another moment. He felt the prick of nostalgia again; she looked pretty as ever, standing there in her silk bathrobe with her eyebrows furrowed.

“I came for Berty,” he finally said.

“I thought I told you to come while I was at work.”

“Well, I didn’t think Berty would be a floating carcass, but things don’t always turn out the way we want them to, do they?”

“Chris, I told you he was dead.”

“Well, if you think —” He sputtered on the word, stopping what was about to become an angry lecture. “You what?”

“I told you he was dead in the email. And since you were the one who bought him, I figured I would leave the burial business to you.”

“Well, I didn’t see anything about that in the email! What was it, a footnote? And besides, what am I supposed to do with him anyway?”

“I don’t know!” Their conversation was turning into a shouting contest, and Shelley was winning, since Chris's voice tended to morph into a prepubescent whimper when he got upset. “Say a few words and flush him down the toilet! I don’t care!” She took a step backward into her room and lowered her voice. “Look, I’m going back to sleep now. You might as well take him now, since you’re already here. Goodbye, Chris.”

“Goodbye, Shelley!” Jake chimed in as she slammed the door. An uneasy silence fell over the room. “Well,” Jake said, “looks like your resolution's a failure.”

~ ~ ~

They left the flat and went down the stairs, Berty wrapped in a paper bag in Chris’s coat pocket. On their way out the door, a man in a leather jacket walked by and caught their attention. He was holding a bouquet of flowers and had his hair styled so perfectly that it didn’t look like he’d styled it at all.

“Morning,” he said, cordially nodding.

When the door shut, Jake said, “You think he’s going to Shelley’s?”

Chris shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.” He set his foot down on the soft ground — it had begun to snow while they were in the flat — and started out toward the car, Jake trailing behind him. “Come on, Jake,” Chris said, throwing his shoulders back. “Let’s go home and flush this piece of crap down the toilet.”

The cellar door was open. From the top of the stairs Elsa could see lights flickering at the bottom. She felt a sense of disappointment filling her body. It was quarter to midnight and it seemed that Albert would be spending New Year not with his beloved wife, but with one of his experiments once again. Elsa sighed as she began to walk down the stairs to her husband’s science laboratory.

Multicoloured lights lit the walls. In another place in another time Elsa would have said it was beautiful. She could see clearly the unmistakable silhouette of her husband. “Albert”, she shouted. Spinning around he knocked a test tube to the floor shattering into a thousand pieces. Ignoring his cursing Elsa continued to reprimand her husband, “It is nearly midnight and you are still down here”, Albert could hear the disapproval in her voice, “Anyone might think that you loved your damned experiments more than you love me”. Albert thought about arguing, telling her about the breakthrough he was about to make, but thought better of it. She began to plead, “Just leave it for five minutes and see in the New Year with me, science can always wait until next year.”

Albert knew that he had pushed his wife to the limit, but it was all for her, if only he could make one amazing discovery he would have all of the time and money in the world to make Elsa happy. He took her by the hand leading her back up the stairs and out of the front door. They sat together on the front door step and watched the sky explode into a myriad of multicoloured stars. Albert opened his mouth to explain how fireworks worked but quickly thought better of it. Putting his arm around her shoulder he whispered, “Before the end of this year I am going to finish building my time machine, then I will devote all of eternity to you”. She smiled as she leaned her head against him, silently promising that she would be more tolerant this year.

Standing at the top of the cellar stairs Elsa listened as strange noises emerged from below. “Albert, your lunch is ready”. She waited. To her surprise she heard footsteps on the stairs. For a fleeting moment Albert and Elsa could have been an ordinary couple laughing and joking in any time any place.

“We are nearly ready for the first trial” Albert enthused, “and it is only 25th May. I should definitely succeed with my New Year’s resolution”.

“That’s lovely honey” Elsa lied, wondering where the ”˜we’ came from. She tried to sound interested, “How will you know if it works, you can’t try it out on yourself”, she could feel his eyes on her and quickly added “or on me, not until you know it is safe”. This was something that Albert hadn’t considered. He returned to his lab after lunch a little downhearted, but at least knowing that Elsa was on side now.

It was several days later at breakfast while eating eggs that Albert announced that he had the answer, “I have decided that I will use a chicken”, Elsa looked puzzled, she was about to ask him how he would know if the chicken had travelled in time as it couldn’t talk when Albert unveiled his brainwave, “I will attach my pocket-watch to the beast and send it back in time, just 10 minutes to start with, but it is my hypothesis that once I press that button the chicken will appear unchanged, but on closer investigation we shall find that the time on the watch has advanced by ten minutes”. A strange wave of pride overcame Elsa, she agreed that it was an excellent idea, and they set a date for twelve noon on 1st June.

Elsa stood at the top of the cellar stairs. She held the live chicken, which she had purchased from the Jones’ farm, in her hands. She had not dared to name the said chicken as she had a horrible feeling that it would not be with her for long. She said a silent prayer for it as she walked down the stairs.

In silence Albert took the chicken from her and he took the watch from his waistcoat pocket. Holding it in his hand for a moment he remembered his father who had worn it before him. Albert wondered if he was looking down on his son with pride, or with the same frustration he had shown him as a child when trying out one of his hair-brained schemes. He carefully attached the watch around the bird’s neck.

“Now we are ready”, Albert’s voice shook with a mixture of nerves and excitement. He placed the chicken into the chamber of the machine, closed the door and turned the dial back ten minutes. He took a deep breath before pressing the red button.

Nothing happened. Elsa thought that Albert looked worried, “But that’s good, isn’t it?” she said, trying to be supportive, “Check the time”. She crossed her fingers as Albert opened the door, took out the chicken and looked at the watch. It read eleven minutes after noon. The experiment was a success! To celebrate Albert produced a dusty bottle from the corner of the cellar. Elsa really hoped that it contained wine.

Over the coming months there were many more experiments, Elsa had begun to share the dream of time travel with her husband, and gradually Bertha the chicken had become a valued member of the family.

Of course there were setbacks along with the successes, the most disastrous of which came during October on the first attempt at human time travel. They had decided that they would play safe and send Albert back in time by a minute, the only problem being that before he could get out of the chamber Elsa had already pushed the button, hence Albert became entangled in a time paradox loop. It was Elsa’s quick thinking when Albert suddenly disappeared back into the past that saved the day, by sending a sheet of paper attached to the glass door of the chamber back with “DO NOT PRESS THE BUTTON” written boldly across it meant that in this version of reality Elsa did not press the button and Albert was returned to normal space and time. For the next attempt they left adequate ”˜escape time’.

The cellar door was open, from the top of the stairs Albert could see the lights flickering. Tension mounted as he walked down the stairs. It was quarter to midnight. Albert knew that he would be spending New Year’s Eve with his beloved Elsa. The endeavours of the last year had for the first time brought them together as a couple, not in a different time or a different place, but right here, right now.

The multicoloured lights lit the walls of the laboratory and he could see the silhouette of Elsa stood motionless. As he approached the machine she moved to embrace him. 2010 was the year selected at random for Albert to travel to.

A thousand thoughts were running through Elsa’s head, she tried to block them out as Albert checked his pocket watch and began to climb into the chamber. From somewhere in the back of her mind one of the thoughts began to push through, “How is he going to get back”, The notion lingered, but she tried to push it to the back of her mind, “Albert will have thought of the answer”. She could hear the church bells beginning their chime. She pressed the button.

Albert was in the open air, he watched as the sky exploded into a myriad of multicoloured stars. He looked around, there were things here he recognised, but also strange things, brightly coloured signs, tall buildings. “So this is 2010, no, make that 2011 now,” he thought to himself, “This year I am going to build a time machine and then I will devote eternity to my Elsa”.

Year after year, I do this stupid insane thing. It’s called a New Year resolution? Do they even really work or is just a new little pick me up? People do them year after year. But I’ve never seen one go has plan, or was even successful in the least? I Know, my New Year resolution is to go and live with my Love of my life. But that is a pretty big dream right now. I think a New year resolution, is just the realization that you can be better, but if you choice to move on with that and become better. When a person actually completes that goal that I know, they will be a hero in my eyes. They will the determination, the will power, the never giving up feeling, I want in a person to be around in my life. All the people I’ve known in my life New Year resolutions have never been accomplished, so therefore haven’t they all gone wrong?
I sat in front of my computer trying to think of a funny resolution to tell you guys, but none came to mind, that would be nice and pleasant , they was all mean and funny, so therefore I won’t write them for someone else to read. Most people resolutions are to lose weight, get a better job, clean out a part of the house, get a new car, better grades, etc. The people who choose these resolutions usually don’t ever accomplish them because life has another turn. You can’t really plan for something that you really may not have control over. Like for instance I want a new car by the end of 2011, I also have a family, kids, pets, low income. It would take all of our savings to just buy a new car at the end of 2011. The kid’s needs and the family, a house, Christmas, Birthdays, and everything must come first before me, my wanting a new car.
I’m not a selfish person; I always put people in front of myself. If a person is face with this, that has the best intentions of their family. They will never get that new car. Would this be considered a New Year resolution gone badly? Or just not completed? They are kinda the same thing, but under different stances. One has gone bad and for the worse, and the other has never been accomplished. Here let me enlighten you with some examples. Someone says “ I want to lose 20 pounds” and ends up gaining more than that, Now that’ll be a dramatic New years eve, when they are actually thinking about this and then think they’re failures? Well that may be, they could not have any self control over what they eat or they could have no control over something that have medically wrong with them? Either way, would this be a resolution gone badly? Because it was for the worse, well unless of course, if you’re like 20 pounds underweight. Then that will be for the better eh? Oh, or another one that may of gone bad. A dude got the new care he wanted for a new year’s resolution, a young guy about to get married in a few months. Driving in the dark in his new car, takes a curve to fast, and wrecks his car, totaled it. That’s a realistic new year’s resolution gone bad? Actually all of them are realistic ones.

Is this what you’re looking for? Some pity story of something someone wanted and didn’t get? A little spot for inspiration, but backwards. A pick me up, just so you can have the reinsurance of your life better that someone else? If you do that then you’re selfish and crude. Saying that you’re better then someone else? If so that really doesn’t make you a good person, just a smuck, that needs to learn how to understand people and realize that your should be lucky for what you have and know that other people do have it worse than you and will always have it worse than you. And that you should always do what you can to help others. Now that should be a New Year’s resolution. To help people that is in greater need then themselves? But no people won’t do that, they always says they can’t and won’t because they need it too, but instead of helping someone else that needs it more, they will be selfish and keep money, or food, old clothes, or whatever it is that’ll help that other person to them self.
You never see people do that often, not often enough, if we did, there wouldn’t be starving kids in homes or in other countries. This has been a New Year’s resolution that has been going wrong for years, too many years. It will continue to go bad, until enough people stop being selfish and learn to help and give to other before them. From how the world is today, that New Year’s resolution will always go bad and will continue.