Thirteen

I had to finish the time machine before my thirteenth birthday or face the complete ruin of my world. This should be a known fact, but every time I tried to warn the people my parents broke in with their talk of puberty and cocktail of hormones and triskaidekaphobia. They have not read the omens. They do not see that the planets will align on the night of the full moon – my birthday – Friday the Thirteenth.

All would be doomed if not for the actions of one unlikely hero: Lucky. My cat.

He came to me in a dream and spoke the dark prophecies that would befall me on the anniversary of my birth. Angst. Acne. The Apocalypse.

After the cutting of the cake and the a cappela group’s rendition of ‘She’s a vain ole lass, but we love her anyway,’ I ran up to work on my machine.

It was a glorious six foot tower in the centre of my bedroom, bought off Ebay at a killer price. The machine was functional, but I had decided not to use it until I added some personal touches – this mainly being a coat of TARDIS blue paint and a pile of twelve horseshoes for health and safety.

The paint was dry. It was time to activate the machine, go back in time, and stop myself from being born. I’ve seen the acne in my parents’ prom pictures. That’s some really bad genes.

Before I could pull the lever I heard my mum come up the stairs, and unexpected sentiment stilled me. She came in with cake.

“You ran off before you could have a slice. Here. I’ve added a special ingredient in yours.”

“Is it peanuts?”

“Oh. How did . . .”

“It’s Friday the Thirteenth, and I’m allergic.”

I pulled the lever. Goodbye, Mum. See you soon.

“Are you sure?” The machine was humming. Warming up. “Well, I’ve got you this anyway. I know you’re fond of these things now.”

She tossed a horseshoe into my pile of twelve.

I did the math.

The time machine had a freaking seizure; popping and sizzling and shuddering. Its doors blew open to let in the light of early dawn . . . and thirteen thousand velociraptors.