The stories were forgotten and the books had all been burned.

The old haberdasher was hoping to live long enough to see fashion swing back to what he had in stock.

We lived vicariously through the sports teams that were geographically relevant to us and when they lost we lost.

He couldn't even manage to stick to his resolutions for twenty-four hours, much less three-hundred-sixty-five days.

"The higher the body count, the higher my ratings," he murmured to himself, his smirk lit by the television screen in the darkened room.

Shelly decided to forgo any illusions of accomplishing her new goals and began the year lazily eating a box of candy in front of the television.

He painfully opened his eyes to find he'd somehow managed to survive the night.