The time
machine has been invented. I look at my brother; I must have misheard. Quickly,
I gulp down my cereal and slam the door shut.
The time
machine has been invented. I turn my head. No, it can’t be, I must have
misheard. Quickly, I push my books into my locker and hurry up the stairs.
The time
machine has been invented. I close my eyes and shake my head. I must have
misheard.
The time
machine has been invented. I must be dreaming. Please, pinch me. My friend
obliges. I don’t wake up. It hurts.
They’re
looking for test subjects, volunteers. This is new.
My friend
looks at me. Yes, we’re signing up.
The wary
man in the lab coat stares at my chart, then at me, then at the chart again. I
cross my legs. I nibble at my nails. I look down. You’re free to go.
The time
machine isn’t what I expected. It’s small, insignificant. I didn’t even notice
it at first. I stare at the tiny machine.
My blood is
pulsing, my feet are tingling and I’m soaked in green light.
I was told
not to touch anything. Just moving one little rock could change the passing of
events. I could destroy human existence, with it the invention of the machine,
my own conception would be undermined and I would have never lived. But could I
then not stand here, not altering the time and therefore still being been born?
But then I would exist to alter the time and then I would have changed it…No, I
should stop these thoughts. This paradox proves to be too much for my
simple-minded brain.
The stench
makes my nose curl. I open my eyes. I have exactly 2 minutes before I dissipate
into thin air.