Suspended On Promises And Paved With Resolutions

20251231

Written for Luna Asli Kolcu’s “Myths of Winter - Week 5” event.

It’s a dream, I remind myself, as I do every year. And just like every other year it doesn’t quite comfort me. I suppose, when it’s a dream everyone is having, that’s not far off reality. Perhaps my mind doesn’t see a difference.
Or perhaps it’s knowing this dream affects the real world.
What twisted deity came up with this? On paper it makes sense; reward those who kept their promises, punish those who habitually break their word. But I can’t remember how old I was that horrible first fall. Surely too young to have such expectations held against me.
I pace back and forth on my tiny island. Glaring at the distant door. Carefully not looking at the expectant endless void.
Not quite empty; distantly, in each direction, I can make out other people’s trials. Some bridges look sturdy, kept promises forming tidy lines of solid bricks. Others are mostly the slippery glass-like tiles left by broken promises. Most are a mix.
The lucky ones - or diligent, I suppose I should call them - can stride across. Easily earning good fortune for the year to come. Those with the odd glass tile can simply mind their step.
Where it’s mostly glass… well, I see folks sliding across on their stomachs. Sensible.
I shudder, remembering that first bridge - or at least, the first one I’ll never be able to forget. Almost all glass. I’d gotten down on my hands and knees and crawled but the tiles being perfectly see-through, and the void spiralling down forever…
I slipped. Or panicked. Or maybe passed out. That bit’s fuzzy. What I clearly remember is the falling. Forever. Tumbling past an endless parade of bridges until I was sure I’d missed the whole year trapped in that horrible nightmare.
Then I woke up. Safe in my bed, with my throat raw. Though nobody heard a peep apparently my screaming and crying had happened, in some fashion.
After that I played by the wicked deity’s rules, and never made a promise I wasn’t certain I could keep. Wrapped everything else in layers of hedging. And it worked; my bridges were sturdy. They were sometimes skinny, when I’d made fewer promises than usual, but I was always able to walk across without fear of falling.
Now, though…
I knew I’d not been doing well this year. Losing my job, that chest infection turning bad, the whole area flooding, it’s been one thing after another. Even getting across your Promise Bridge doesn’t guarantee you a smooth year.
So I wasn’t making promises. What with not knowing if I could keep them. I just… hadn’t realised how few I’d made until right now. Looking at a handful stretched to cover the whole distance, bricks pulled into gossamer threads.
Could they even hold my weight? I didn’t dare try. Well, I had to, time didn’t work normally here, you couldn’t wait it out, and it would be better to try than just jump off, but I couldn’t get my feet to agree with this logic. They preferred to simply stay where they were.
Back and forth I pace. Silently measuring how many steps I’d have to manage on that spiderweb to reach the other side. Envying, for the first time, the people with a full bridge of glass. I’d rather squirm like a seal - like a slug, even! - than tackle this.
“Come on.” I whisper to myself. Trying to muster enough reckless courage. “We just need to get through this, then next year we’ll make sure to make more promises.”
I force a chuckle. “That’s a promise, eh?”
Come on, come on… it’s just a dream, after all…
Then I see it.
Laying across the threads of my bridge is a wispy, ephemeral tile. I’m certain that wasn’t there before.
I blink. Walk closer to inspect it. When I gingerly prod it turns out to be… not solid, my finger slowly sinks through, but when I pull back and try again the spongey solid-mist has sprung back into place immediately. It’d be like walking along a very soft mattress. Except I suspect I could fall through.
What is it?
Stepping back, I keep my gaze on the bridge as I cast my mind about and finally promise myself “I will read at least one book next year.”
Another tile coalesces from the void. Smaller than the first, but otherwise identical.
Promises unrealised. Not kept, but not yet broken.
Alright. While I’ve never been one for resolutions (they are, after all, a sort of promise, and normally grand ones), I really didn’t want to try and cross the threads alone, so…
What did I think I could definitely do next year? I’d rather stick to a hundred small goals.
Though… was I at risk of forgetting them? No, you always knew what promise each part of the bridge represented, and it lingered on waking. But, just in case, I’d try to stick to things I’d probably do anyway. Not ones I’d definitely do; that felt like it wouldn’t count.
Ok, so, what else…
“I promise I’ll go for a walk at least once a week - unless there’s floods or such. Unless it’s not safe, I suppose I should say.”
Ooh, that got me a nice long tile. Still ages to go, but it’s encouraging to see.
Eating fruit every day… trying those hobbies where I’d bought stuff but never touched it… reconnecting with friends - and apologising, and admitting I’d been struggling… I pave the bridge in with everything I wanted to be, even throwing in promises like “watch a sunset” and “let Josh drag me to a musical” to fill the final stretch. Knowing now that them turning to glass was better than not having a bridge at all.
Moment of truth. Deep breath. Arms out for balance. Keep my gaze on the door.
And one last promise - no matter how this goes, I’ll keep as many of these as possible. I want a solid bridge next time.

Prompt was “There’s a bridge everyone must cross to enter the new year. It’s built from every promise made in the last twelve months. Kept promises are stone. Broken ones are glass. Some people run. Some people crawl. Some people don’t look down.”