New Year, Old Habits and Excuses

Ah January - the month that makes me older, greyer and a planner. This is the month where I write down a list of things I will acheive which has remained unchanged sicne 2014. And then I buy a beautiful planner.

Then my brain panics and spews out irrestible excuses that I am only too happy to embrace. Will that change in 2026? Doubt it. And it is this doubt that gave rise to some self-directed anger that gave rise to this story.

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She unboxed her new planner. Cute animals. 2026.

She peeled off the plastic wrapper, her eyes shining at the adorable stickers tucked inside. It looked perfect on her desk. She placed a pen beside it—green.

“This year… will be my year,” she said. “Oh, please God,” she folded her hands, “please let this year be my year.”

Something rustled behind her.

She didn’t notice.

A book fell. She swivelled in her chair. It was her 2025 planner. The one she had thrwon away in the morning.

BANG!

She jumped. Outside, fireworks split the sky. Screams of joy echoed through the night.

Inside, she took a step towards the planner.

Another fell right at her feet. She jumped back.

2016. Hardcover. 90s cartoons.

2018. Self-Love quotes.

2019. Daisies on the cover.

2020. Harry Potter themed.

And they kept coming.

The ceiling tore open. Pens of every type and colour rained down, bouncing hard off her shoulders, her head, her back. Ink burst. Plastic cracked.

She screamed and crumpled to the floor, hands over her head.

Her eyes squeezed shut, waiting for it to stop. It did, suddenly, like a switch turning off. She peered through her fingers. There was nothing. The floor – clean, the cabinet – empty. Holding onto the table, she hoisted herself upon her knees, shaking.

2018 came out of nowhere.

It hit her across her left cheek. Before she could even register the sting on her face, 2021 – hardcover, author profiles - fell hard on her head. She collapsed, barely conscious. They heaped over her, enveloping her face in their empty pages. They carried a faint smell of the VapoRub she used. She heard their spine cracking as they converged upon her. She tried to claw at them and thrash her body to throw them off. They tightened their grip around her veins, reducing her blood flow. Her limbs became numb.

The pages pressed down harder and harder till there was no room left for air. She felt their weight crushing her skull. She gasped for oxygen, her tears leaving marks on the pristine pages.

“Sor-” she began.

But she couldn’t continue. Paper slid into her mouth, sticking against her dry tongue. It folded and slithered down her neck, filling up her windpipe. More and more pages balled up and stuffed themselves into her mouth. The edges of her lips tore to make way. The pages drank her blood, forming to-do lists and tasks in glistening red. She writhed, her legs kicking the ground, trying to detach her torso from the floor. Her heart thudded for help, louder and louder till it finally succumbed to its fate. Her body stilled.

On her desk, the bright colours of the 2026 planner began to bleed. The hues formed a rivulet and dripped down onto the body till there was nothing left but blank pages

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