Rushmoor Writers Group

This piece was inspired by the prompt: GREATEST FEARS

Unlike all her friends, Mallory Magpie wasn’t looking forward to being a teenager. More specifically, she wasn’t looking forward to her first year as a teenager. The ages of 14 to 19 she had no problem with. But that year between 12 and 14 was another matter entirely.

Because Mallory Magpie was triskaidekaphobic.

Never heard of triskaidekaphobia? Don’t worry, not many people have. And the vasty majority of who have are the people who suffer from it. (The others are all pub quizzers.)

So, to clarify: triskaidekaphobia is a phobia of the number 13. And Mallory had it bad. You may have the vague unnerving feeling that the number 13 might be unlucky. Mallory was filled with terror by the absolute certainty that it was a harbinger of doom.

She couldn’t say “thirteen” out loud. She couldn’t walk by houses numbered thirteen. She couldn’t read the thirteenth page of a book. She measured lengths obstinately in imperial measurements, because inches became feet and feet became yards before reaching that wretched number.

And on the 13th of every month she locked herself in her room and refused to let anyone in.

Quite what would happen if she ever did have a chance encounter with a baker’s dozen she could never put into words. “Something terrible!” she’d say, eyes wide. “Something awful! The worst bad luck ever.”

Mr and Mrs Magpie had taken her to a series of increasingly expensive therapists and specialists. None found a cure, and after the twelfth, Mallory refused to see any more. But the final therapist did equip her with some coping measures, and so life, for a while, settled into a strange, but reassuring routine.

Until just before her thirteenth birthday.

Her parents had noted Mallory’s growing anxiety as the fateful date drew near, so they were expecting some pronouncement from their daughter. But they were not expecting this.

“I want to sleep through being thirteen,” she announced, deadly serious. “I want to be put in an induced coma.”

Her parents were appalled. They were even more appalled when they discovered that could cost millions of pounds. “Thirteen million probably,” lied her dad, hoping that would put Mallory off the idea. It didn’t, but the lack of any bank on the planet that would loan them the amount – and a failed crowdfunding campaign – meant Mallory was forced to shelve the idea.

“Then I’ll just lock myself in my room all year,” she decided. “I’ll buy supplies beforehand.”

“Then we’ll buy you a really big freezer for your birthday,” said Mr Magpie, ever practical. “You can’t live off Monster Munch.”

And so Mallory’s self-imposed exile began.

It didn’t last long. On the thirteenth day a meteorite landed on Oak Avenue and destroyed all the houses in a five-mile radius.

Mallory was the only survivor. 

“It’s amazing,” said the paramedic who found her inside the enormous chest freezer she’d fallen into when the meteor struck (she’s had a craving for some tiramisu). “No injuries, just a little frostbite. You must be the luckiest girl in the world.”

© Dave Golder