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Weekly Contest #284
As the old year passes into the wee hours of the new, James is passing over the Atlantic. The second hand of the gold watch he sports, still set to Dublin time, ticks all too fast past the forty-five second mark in a resolute march toward the future. He takes a sip of his vodka cranberry from the plastic cup on his tray and counts in his head - five, four, three, two, one. Midnight. It hits him dully, like a punch to the chest. The rotten year over. A new, rottener one just beginning. James leans back to rest his head against the seat....
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