To Tradition

New year. New start. New you. At least that is how most people see it. A time of rebirth and of beginnings. A time for the future.

And yet, so many of the most infamous New Years celebrations are based on traditions and the past.

From the countdown in times square to that lucky new years kiss, it is all about the past and it is all about repetition.

But this continues because, as humans, what do we have but the past and tradition to define our lives? Without tradition we are nothing. We are simply masses of atoms with no purpose and no ambition. We have no life. Without tradition, we would perish.

Which is why many people find it necessary to our very being to uphold these traditions, mediocre as they may seem.

Its 1999, New Year's Eve, 10pm exactly. The party is not quite at its peak but the energy is climbing and people do the dance and go through the motions, each one anticipating the new year just as if it has already reached the countdown.

Tight cocktail dresses and low buttoned shirts slide against each other blending into one crowd, effortlessly.

The noise blends too. The consistent humm of small talk buzzes through every members ear. But it is never truly heard.

In the center of the crowd there is a small wooden table. It is a light chestnut color and it fits the scene of the party. That is, it blends in.

The most obvious portion of the table, the portion which would be most commonly holding the chips and dip, is bland. But the work of the legs beneath is nothing less than magnificent.

Each leg is smothered in intricate carvings and none of the legs are the same.

The carvings which paint the leg on the far left, for instance, seem to almost tell a story.

The cuts begin as deep, ragged, marks and then fade to smooth lines which could so easily be a picture.

If any child were to stare at it quite long enough they would most certainly see an epic poem form before their very eyes.

It could form absolutely anything. It could be a tree, or a wood, or the squirrel which lived in the safety of the hollow thing. Or a forest fire.

It has nothing to define it.

There the table sits unnoticed. That is until the silence settles in, people hear the silence.

They turn their heads to see a man standing upon this very table.

He is noticeably tall and thin, with his dying black hair spread back perfectly, too perfectly, and gelled there in place.

"Ladies and gentleman" his voice is weak and dry though he appears no older than forty, "the time has come quickly".

It is now 10:02.

"If everyone would kindly line up in front of the front door, we can begin."

Like ants in a line, the crowd obliges.

They form this monstrosity directly in front of the tall mans front door.

Towards the inner home and its residents, the door is painted a bright ruby red. It makes a statement and is never unnoticed.

But strangely, as the line exits the home, it is also noticed that the outside of the door is painted a simple, discreet, cream shade.

The line slowly leads outside and down the street. Though the group consists of fifty people, not one trips, and not one mutters a word.

Steadily they march, one after another, down the damp street, not one questioning a single step.

Then as the tall man abruptly raises his arm, they separate.

Like segments of some disgusting insect, not so distant of a relative from the ant, they break off and begin knocking on doors.

As each household answers the desperate bang upon the door, the home empties. Each and every resident vacates without hesitation and follows.

This continues until every ant in the line has a partner. Then they march.

Back down the damp street, back through the bright red door of the tall mans home, and back around the small wooden table.

It is now 11:59, with 10 seconds till midnight.

There are two lines, each with fifty people staring directly at eachother.

The tall man sits at the end of these lines holding a shimmering gold pocket watch.

It swings back and forth back and back and forth and he counts down, slowly, almost hypnotizing, 10...9...8...

As he reaches one, each member of the original line, which now makes up the right line, raises a slim silver blade.

And simultaneously, they glide it perfectly through their left line partners throat so blood trickles through their mouth and drips down their lips.

Then, as at any New Years party, they lean forward and kiss those ruby red lips, suckling at the blood which flows from one mouth to another.

Each person who was unfortunate enough to be chosen for the left line was now dead. Limp in their partners arms.

Most had their eyes closed, but there were those few whose gaze lingered.

Their eyes were wide as if they were terrified with their own fate. Or perhaps horrified with the actions of others.

When a living, breathing, person stares at something, even if they are simply staring into space, you can tell that they are looking. You can make an educated guess at what they are so enticed with or what thoughts occupy their mind so.

When a dead person stares, there is nothing. You dont guess, you know, they see nothing and they think nothing.

The other side of the line, however, is very much alive. Their eyes dance in bliss. Some of their eyes roll back into their head, others stare intensely at their partners. All are thinking the same thing. But to guess what that is is reserved to only themselves. And any man who would want to know what is going throught their minds is a man who would want to be one of them and so the cycle continues.

The tall man looks especially satisfied glancing from one line to another and smiling, no, laughing. His head snaps back unnaturally and he laughs and he laughs.

He now stands, raises his glass, and says calmly, "To another year of good health, and to tradition, for, without tradition, we would all perish."