EMDAS 2012 - January (Resolutions!) Voting Thread

Man in no man's land
The minutes seem to crawl by. I think it's near midnight, but it's difficult to keep time here. All I know for certain is that sleep is slowly creeping up on me as well. I half-jokingly say to the soldier next to me, Tommy, watch out for me while I get a doss, and sit down against the plank walls. For a few minutes, I think I can squirm into an uncomfortable sleep. Then comes a shout, Christmas was a week ago, get back in the trench! My mate from before gives me a stir and I ask, what's the matter, Roberts? I don't hear the benefits. He tells me to take a look. Warily, I poke my head to just under the parapets. I see there on this New Years night, standing above a dugout to the front of the line, a bugler.

What's happening here? I can't many any sense of it. If it had been a week earlier, there would be nothing overly remarkable about something like this during those remarkable times, but the officers have since restored order to the ranks and reminded us of our grand animosity towards the Germans. They had returned it in kind, as if there had never been that moment of peace. Christmastime joviality had given way to the mechanical resumption of hostilities. There was no more room for that in this finely tuned war! Yet right now I can plainly see, out of defiance or delusion, that foolhardy bloke.

That night is too dim to see well, to where I can only just make out his silhouette barely contrast against the night sky. I imagine he looks much like anyone else here, a young man wearing a dusty uniform decorated with caked-on mud, wet to the bones, and shivering in the cold. What I see next is that same man perhaps steadying himself with determination, wetting his cracked lips, and placing the bugle to his mouth. I hear the first halting notes, just barely above the regular clamor on the front. The next few are more sure. The sound rings true, and I'm sure it's being heard up and down the trenches and even across the way. The lone bugler scraps on, filling the air with a familiar melody. I find myself reminded of an old long since.

Around me, I can feel something has sparked in these infantrymen. I hear a slowly rising din, maybe just one or two soldiers at first, but then I think the whole mob's in on it, and they're all crying for my jos and pint stowps and old acquaintances. The sound is all youth and yearning and hoarseness, but it's as clear as the bugle. Then judge my surprise, their trench being only dozens of yards away, I hear the Germans too. It's in broken English and heavily accented through and through, but the voice, the voice is the exact same, of men playing heroism for the brass and crown, of boys who've had the whole nature of this great spat revealed to them since Mons and earlier, of soldiers made to be cogs in the machinery of war, and of friends still up for a round of song. I think my eyes go glassy and my face is wet, but I'm convincing myself it's because of the water in the trenches. It stuns me, to listen to it, and for a long moment I feel as if though this all wouldn't have been if we'd only known a few German lads a bit better than one Christmas day.

When my senses return to me, I start to make my way through the trenches towards the dugout. I don't think I'm the only one, seeing all the movement, but I'm sure that some of that is the staff scrambling to find the redcaps and jacks and to loose them on us like the dogs they are. Something drives me, and as I go I'm listening to the fellows around me. It's not just their singing. I hear around me—good God, where did all our boys go—miss bonny old Scotland—cold's playing the mischief with us—what's the matter, Bill, why the crying—and all sorts of things from the sorry little devils living through this hell. The bugler sounds again, each time a blow against whatever has made all this suffering automatic, a song in the midst of a cacophony of bullets and barrages.

When I make it to the entrance of the sap, I notice some pip going up and down the trenches nearby, knocking about and telling us all to quit our horsing, that we were supposed to be acting as a soldier ought to and what would Sir French think if he were here and we were singing songs with the enemy. I see behind him more officers, jacks in toe. Then I see that a number have congregated on the entrance. They raise their voices belligerently, raucous voices drowning him out. I shout to him—I'll tell you, sir, that right now I feel I have far more in common with Fritz than with French.

I join the group and the singing, feeling like this is the best I can do to stave off resigning the part of me that's still immature and hopeful to the ordeal of fire. The military superiors, the representatives of authority, the would-be jailors make to start. I know, though, that there are more of us, that this rabble of a choir is going to hold firm. The lieutenant gives me a hard stare, tells us that the Germans won't hesitate to fire on us tomorrow morning for all our pleasantries, that we're all fools and fie on us for our disobedience! Over his bluster, the bugle calls, and we all jeer. The lieutenant and his lackeys begin to back away and we all clap each other on the backs and laugh.

I can not say that this feels like the enmity between us has come to a stop, nor has the fuel for the war come to an end because we have shared a moment. For whatever it's worth, I recoil at the lieutenant's words momentarily, and imagine the man with so much life and determination today might be lying broken with his instrument with the next round of shelling. As I mull over this, the last note is being played and the verses are coming to an end, but just when all seems almost quiet I hear a shout, happy new year! I don't know if it comes from the bugler or some other lad, but men from both sides of no man's land join with the cries of happy new year and frohes neujahr and wishing you wells and ein gesundes. I realize that, whatever the truth of that, that even if this war continues on forever, that even with all the machinations of war, human decency between man in no man's land exists now as it did in the days of auld lang syne.

For this new year, I make a few decisions. First, I will go and thank that bugler. Next, I will run. Maybe I will be called a traitor, maybe I will die in some field, maybe nothing will come of it. However, what I am certain of now is that it is better to be out of this misguided war than in it, that there is no life if it is life in the trenches, and that there exists something in us all that drives us together even as the world schemes to pull us apart. I resolve to find it.

Words

"Five minutes to the end of year, Todd. Any regrets over what you've done in 2011?"
"Pfft, you wish. Perhaps I have a resolution or two though."
The two teenagers sat silently in the empty living room, perfectly aware on the one thing that would end the year with a subtle bang.

"Our usual game then, Graham?"
"Wouldn't have it any other way."

The rules between their little game was kept simple, as per usual. A game of words and quick thinking, where the one with the superior concentration would come out on top. Without the need for further conversation, the game begun.

"A tear shed for those lost."
"'Tear and shed'." Graham quickly replied. He would continue the game from this point.

"All you need is love."
"'Need'. Now it's my turn."

"Time flies when you're having fun."
"'You're'. Given the ten second time limit, you should really pick more difficult phrases."

"How about...'Spare the Rod and spoil the child.'"
Todd massaged his temples for a good three seconds before replying. "Spare and rod. Nice try, but you're just giving me more points."

"Strike while the iron is hot."
Graham laughed quite triumphantly as he waved his finger at Todd. "You've just given me three points. 'Strike', 'iron' and 'hot'."

"Twenty seconds until the end of the year..this will be your last chance. Tell you what, I'll give you a chance. "It's an ill wind that blows no one any good."
Todd began to panic; the countdown to the new year on the television was publicly announcing his remaining time. As the crowd chanted down from ten, Todd stuttered out an answer.
"Ill, wind, blows...and um...any?"

Graham couldn't help but laugh. "Nice try, but only the first three were correct."
"Damn it, I was so close! I thought this year would be different."

And with that, the game came to an end. Graham emerged victorious for the tenth year in a row, but he placed a hand on Todd's somewhat discouraged shoulder.

"You're getting better, Todd. Soon you'll surely surpass me, don't you worry."
Smiling brightly, Todd quickly replied. "Thanks...brother."
"So tell me, what is your resolution?"
"Heh. To be just like you."

What we talk about when we talk about runners

For many years now, I have been spending my weekends playing chess with some old folks at the nearby park. Why did I start? There was no particular reason, I suppose; one day I was just taking an aimless stroll when I stopped to observe a chess game between two seniors. Somehow I became the next challenger and things just rolled on from there.

Now, though they've been playing chess for practically forever, they're not good, not by any measure. It's just a reason for them to get together on weekends, and to fill out the hours. More often than not the time is spent on snippets of conversation between infrequent chess moves. Sometimes the talking takes such precedence that everyone even forgets whose move it is. Actually, that happens quite often.

What am I, a guy who is not remotely that old, doing amongst the elderly citizens? Well, I've found them to be an interesting bunch, and particularly refreshing compared to people of my age. For one, they'll talk about anything and everything, however irreverent; they have very few taboos that they have not outlived. Or perhaps it is merely because they are so slow to embarrassment.

So what do they talk about when they're pretending to play chess? Several things, in fact. They like to talk about women, those old lechers. Perhaps that's why they're gathering in the park; every few minutes or so some lady with a well-toned body and thigh-revealing running attire happens to jog past. If only the ladies knew what the old men discussed once they were out of earshot!

Now, what they actually have is a system of wagers, though the stakes are very minor, such as cans of drinks or the like. The bets begin afresh each year. What do we bet on? Jogging ladies, or rather, whether they'll continue jogging.

The practice started long before my time, but here's how it first begun. Someone noticed that starting from late November, the number of joggers in the park would start to increase. In particular, there would be a sudden spike in runners beginning from January, after the New Year. Now, the reason for this is obvious with some thought; clearly these were people that had resolved to take up jogging for the New Year! Of course, whether they succeeded was another matter altogether.

It does seem a bit mean to bet on the failure of another's resolve, but well, they're not harmed in any way, right? So we make small wagers. Often we choose individuals that are particularly notable as the subjects of our bets. One reason is out of practicality; there's no way of determining the outcome if we can't keep track of the people we're betting on. The second reason is to spice things up and to keep things interesting; often those 'chosen' are very attractive or very unattractive.

I'll admit that my gambling record is terrible; never have I actually won or guessed correctly. "You need strategy," they often taunt me. "You are too concerned with superficial beauty!" was another of their retorts. It was true that I used physical attractiveness and fitness as a gauge of how long the runners would continue their jogging regime, but at least that made some sense, right? Surely, they would be more invested into the outcome and stick closer to their resolutions? But somehow, my theory was always proven wrong.

There's losing, and there's losing without knowing why. And so I asked them how they made their guesses, but their answers varied from the credible to the ridiculous. "Those that run in specialized running attire stop earlier than those in old tees and shorts" was counterintuitive, but at least there might have been some plausible psychological basis. Another guy told me "if they are between 1.5 to 1.8 meters in height with long legs, then they will last!", which though highly specific I suspected to be total rubbish. But even that was better than "if they listen to rock when running, then they will not move for long".

I wanted to win, at least just once. I guess it's for my pride? My mind was set on winning. Though I'm not telling anyone, I've actually spent several hours brainstorming on new tactics to win. I've even tried googling for helpful tips, and consulted with wise personages on online forums.

There's gambling with luck, and gambling with skill. And if you have neither, you'll have to cheat. Match-fixing it was, then! It seemed simple enough to encourage the ladies to continue with their jogging resolutions. In the worst case, a small incentive would do the job. I wasn't going to make any profit, but it was never about the money.

One morning, I intentionally took a different route to the park, one that intersected the running path, but was quite far off from the sheltered pavilion with the chess tables. There I stood and waited for her to arrive; she was someone who had just started jogging here this year, with relatively good physical tone. She was often dressed in specialized running gear, with sleeveless dri-fit tees and well-cut running shorts. Privately, I had made the guess that she was actually accustomed to running, and merely started to jog here this year. Therefore I had wagered that she would continue running throughout the year. But I had to ensure that she would follow through.

The woman appeared, and as she approached, I made a motion to stop her.

"Y-yes?" she said, her face showing signs of surprise.

"Hi, I know this will seem unusual, but I think you'll like running here, because it's a nice place. I'll really appreciate it if you could continue jogging here."

"Erm... look, I've been warned about you, and though I think you probably mean no harm, it'll be best for both of us if you stayed away? I know how you like me and all, but it's not going to work out, ok?"

Her words stunned me for a moment. "W-what? Whatever do you mean? And what's 'warned about me'?"

Stepping backwards defensively, she continued, "Well, if that's the way you want to play it. Earlier this week, a group of old gentlemen stopped me as I was running past them. They then told me of how someone- you- had a particular interest in me, and how you often ogled at me as I was running past. Now, I've tried keeping my eye out, and I've seen that it's true. I hope that you stop whatever you're doing, well, 'cause it's rude. I'm considering running at other locations if you don't."

That's the story of how I, the pervert of the park, achieved a continuous string of lost wagers. I did eventually end with a victory though, and another prize, but that's another tale for another time.