Tag Archive: Five Minute Escape


“Five-Minute Escape” short adventure story: Road Run”

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June 20, 2013

1956 Plymouth Belvedere

Picture courtesy Chrysler Corporation and Allpar.Com

“Five-Minute Escape”

short adventure story.

 

ROAD RUN

TIME: June 17, 1959. PLACE: Arvin, California

Copyright Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

 

 

“Yeah, man, like the chick digs you. I caught her looking at you. Twice.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah, man,” Lyle said, shaking out a Lucky. “Just playin’ hard to get. You know chicks. They don’t dig you diggin’ them diggin’ you. She’s playin’ it cool. That’s how you wanna play it too, man…cool. Ice cool.”

“I’m always cool, dork,” Johnnie Stivano said, trying not to look excited. “She’s plenty tuff enough, I guess. I seen better. So…what’s her name?”

Lyle lit up, paused, his duck tail gleaming in the headlights, and squinted at Stivano. “Paula something or other. Yours for the takin, you win. Like I got money riding on you, Johnnie-boy. Dust him for me.  Nah, Man, dust the jerk for her. You deserve a chick like that.”

Johnnie rubbed his hands on his t-shirt. “Yeah? So what’s the punk’s name? This guy I’m racin?”

“Jeff Raeder. Some hotshot cat from up Bakersfield way. But he don’t have no hot Fury mill. He don’t have no tricked out cam. He just got himself an off the lot ‘Vette, strictly stock. Take him, Johnnie-boy. Take his pink slip and win me some skins…and get yourself one tuff babe.”

“Sure, Lyle, sure,” Johnnie said, walking away and sneaking a look at Paula. Lyle was greasy and a creep, but he was right about one thing: she was tuff. Long blonde hair; coral lips; big bright eyes, blue. Boss curves too. A real gone kitten made to purr.

Johnnie turned his attention to Raeder’s machine. A brand new blue and white’58, presumably unmodified–which was plenty. A 283 mill pumping out 270 horses in a light, 3000 pound rocket. One mean machine. And, at over a buck a pound, a rich brat’s toy.

“What you starin’ at, Belvedere? You diggin’ my ride?”

Johnnie eyed Raeder. He was slick, duded, wore an arrow shirt with a collar. Johnnie hated him instantly. “Your ride till the finish line, big mouth. Then it’s mine.”

Raeder laughed. “In your dreams, Plymouth man. That cheap heap of yours will shake apart first.”

“Just keep your pink slip handy, punk, for when I dust you. I hate waiting.”

Johnnie walked back to his car, an all red 1956 Plymouth Belvedere coupe. He’d paid a hundred skins for it when the first owner had flamed the original mill. Johnnie had scoured the junkyards for a replacement plant and had managed to snag a 303 Fury V-8; which, after mods, now pumped out around 340 horses. Not exactly a glamour ride, but tuff enough to where Johnnie now had a bit of a rep as a man to beat.

Jake Russell, the main man to beat in the Valley–the man who had been the man to beat as long as Johnnie could remember–met him at his ride.

“You ready, Stivano?” Jake asked with a chiseled smile.

“Think I can take him?”

Russell nodded at the younger man. “You got soul in your ride, Kid. Blood from your knuckles; sweat from your brow. He just got cash in his.”

Johnnie grinned. “You flaggin’ tonight?”

“Yeah. Better not embarrass me, Stivano. I’m aimin’ to take that ‘Vette off you when you finally get up the guts to challenge me. It’s a real nice ride for a kiddie car.”

Johnnie laughed and pulled the Belvedere up to the painted-on starting line. The uneven blat-blat-blat of his engine burbled up from his firewall and vibrated the floor pan. A quarter mile ahead, he could see the headlights of cars parked at the finish line. The night between seemed very black, very heavy. Beyond the asphalt, maybe a mile away, farmhouse lights shone out upon the maize fields in yellow checkers. Her hair was like that, he thought, tightening his knuckles on the steering wheel. Like light shining on a field of golden grain…

Raeders voice broke in: “Hey, Belvedere—we gonna run or not?”

“I’m the one runnin’, big-mouth. Next to me, you’re just crawlin’.”

Piling on the revs, Johnnie watched as Jake towed the line with the flag. Felt the familiar tightening of his gut as he tried to anticipate the flag drop.

“C’mon, Baby,” he whispered to the Belvedere, “Run hard! Let’s take this punk!”

The revs from both cars reached a scream, a howl that shrieked through the night.

The flag dropped.

Johnnie popped the brake and hung on. The Belvedere leapt forward. Tires screeched, digging for traction. The cars lunged down the road. Johnnie was jammed back against his seat, felt his neck snap.

Go Baby! Run!

Two-hundred pounds lighter, the Vette jumped out first. Johnnie saw taillights, felt his gut suck in against his spine.

No! No, you knew this would happen! Hang on! Watch your revs, and…and—

SHIFT! Johnnie slammed the “tree” shift down into second. Tires screeched again. The car fishtailed slightly, Johnnie straightened it out, swearing. Saw the Vette vault further into the lead.

Mistake! Watch the mistakes!

Headlights bored ahead. Engines whined as the revs mounted. Johnnie watched his tach, anticipating the next shift. He was gaining, but slow—

I’ll need all my road–What’s he doing? The punk’s coming into my lane! Trying to cut me off!

The Vette was nudging into Johnnie’s lane. He could see Raeder by dashlight, grinning. Johnnie managed to get even with the Vette’s rear fender, forcing Raeder back into his own lane. Both cars were winding past redline, both engines screaming, howling, protesting–

Shift Raeder! Chicken out, you punk! You know you want to! Shift, damn you! Shift before I blow my engine!

Raeder shifted. Johnnie powered ahead and slapped his shifter into third. Raeder leapt even. The headlights at the finish line blinded. Johnnie held on and prayed.

C’mon Baby! Run! Don’t let me down!

Johnnie took Raeder by a fender’s length.

Johnnie swung the car around and burbled back to the headlights. Raeder trailed behind looking deflated. Stepping out, Johnnie searched the crowd for Paula, saw her, hair like gold shining in his beams.

He sought her out, trying to contain his excitement. She watched him, her face without expression. Be cool, just like Lyle said. Be ice-freakin’ cool…

He brushed back his hair, felt it slick back into place. Smiled. “I won it for you, Babe,” he said, trying to sound cool, like Brando or Dean. “Won’t you please tell me your name?”

She stared at him for a moment, expressionless. “Drop dead, creep!” she spat, turning to walk away.

“Oh,” she said, in a sing-song voice over her shoulder, “And the name’s Raeder. Paula Raeder. I’m Jeff Raeder’s sister, and I don’t date no cut-rate Plymouth punk!”

Behind, in the crowd, Johnnie heard Lyle laughing.

Making fists, Johnnie turned, gathering his strength for another catch-up race.

Lyle was a creep, but he sure knew how to run.

 

THE END

**************

READ ANOTHER ONE LIKE THIS: http://www.gizelbook.com/five-minute-escape-short-short-story-the-stampede/

For more information about the history of street racing, please click the following fascinating links:

For a general overview, try: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Street_racing

Note: this site does not endorse illeagal street racing, which is dangerous not only to participants, but also to innocent bystanders…besides the fact that it’s against the law. Go to a track! Keep your car looking cool! And best of all, stay alive!

ABOUT THIS BLOG… Each “Five-Minute Escape“ short adventure story in this blog series will be kept under 1500 words; most will clock in at about 500. The “Five-Minute Escape” short adventure story will allow you to log on, take a fast trip, and get back quick to what you should have been doing in the first place…though hopefully the experience will stay with you long after you have moved on to something else. Subscribe to the blog and take a weekly…”Five-Minute Escape!” “Five-Minute Escape“ short adventure story copyrighted Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

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“Five-Minute Escape” short adventure story: 81st Kill

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June 11, 2013

The Red BaronMini adventures. Mini Sci-Fi. Mini History. Mini Fantasy. Mini-escapes. What you can expect from the…

“Five-Minute Escape”

short adventure story.

 

 THE EIGHTY-FIRST KILL

TIME: April 21, 1918. PLACE: The Western Front, France

Copyright Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

The Englishman’s luck…it is bad today…

Flying high cover on the arms of a strong easterly wind, Rittmeister Manfred Von Richthofen banked his Fokker Triplane and charged his twin Spandau machine guns. Beneath him and in his sights, a lone Sopwith Camel. The plane had broken from a dogfight and now bounced along the Somme Valley towards the English lines and home. Why the man had fled was clear: Richthofen watched as the Camel’s pilot worked frantically to free his jammed guns.

The Rittmeister weighed the risks. The flyer had surrendered altitude and was yet unmissed. Little danger, then, of enemy intervention. It would be a simple matter to dive, intercept, destroy. This morning—the twenty-first of April, 1918—would mark his eighty-first kill…if the Englishman could be downed before crossing the German lines.

There is time, he thought, rechecking his machine guns and nudging the red Triplane after the fleeing Camel.  A quick victory. Then back to base for a shave, a moment of solitude in his “dugout” amidst his “trophies.” A walk, perhaps, with his Danish hound Moritz—who of late had been strangely subdued.

His eighty-first kill. But would there be an eighty-two? Already Headquarters was hinting that the Rittmeister should accept a safer position out of harm’s way.  He had declined, citing his duty to the soldiers in the trenches. But the Rittmeister was a practical man.  It was only a matter of time before he was grounded and some other youngster—his brother Lothar perhaps—rose to equal or surpass his score.

But there was yet today. Eighty-one!  More than twice Boelcke; fifty more than Lothar; sixty more than Udet. Perhaps he would finally be awarded the oak leaves to his Pour le Merite. It was such a pretty medal. He knew it was wrong to covet such things, but….

I am due.

Beneath him, the Camel continued to bounce awkwardly over the river valley.  Richthofen closed quickly, watching as the plane filled his wire cross-hairs. It came to him that the Englishman would burn. Nine of his last ten kills had burned—including his seventy-fifth—a bitter fight in which the pilot and observer had died in flames.  The incident had affected Richthofen strongly, and he hesitated–his old “joy of the hunt” replaced by feelings of regret, duty, and the compulsion to score.

Hunched over his guns, Richthofen opened fire. His twin spandaus clattered. Tracers arched towards the Englishman’s plane, causing the pilot to crane his head rearwards. White-faced, goggles glinting, the Englishman turned, dropped altitude, and began juking at 100 miles per hour.

An amateur, thought Richthoven. Green to allow a pursuer to close unseen to within thirty yards…

Richthofen pulled high and to the right of the fleeing machine, trailing as Sailly Laurette neared in a gray, pocked wound. Trees scrolled by ninety feet below. He saw “No Man’s Land,” acres of shell holes filled with muddy water. Watched as his tracers zipped by the Englishman’s struts. And yet, no kill.

Concentrate, Richthofen willed himself, angling in behind the camel’s tail and firing short, controlled bursts. The Englishman fluttered his plane, sidestepping, jigging. The river Somme rose and dipped at their left wingtips, thrown into geysers by the occasional wild round.

Eighty silver cups so far; a trophy for each victim. You, Englishman, will be my eighty-first–

But the camel zigged safely just ahead. Eighty feet above the valley floor now, crossing and recrossing Richthofen’s sights, miraculously evading the Rittmeister’s tracers. Sailly Laurette flashed by on the right.  German and Australian rifle fire flared from the trenches. The village of Vaux appeared, ahead and across the riverbank. A shell-pocked crossroad  showed beneath, then was gone. A stand of hemlocks whizzed past. The town of Sailly-le-Sec came, went in a gray blur.

Over the engine’s roar, Richthofen heard the distant chatter of machine guns.  A second Camel, attacking!  Richthofen bent as tracers slammed into the Triplane and walked towards the cockpit.  He pulled the stick up and sharply right, judging that–at his tremendous rate of speed–this new Englishman must overshoot him. Giving the Rittmeister time to finish off his intended victim, who was proving surprisingly difficult to kill.

The attacking Englishman zoomed past and climbed sharply to the left—apparently convinced that at the very least, the Triplane had been seriously damaged by the attack.  Meanwhile, Richthofen, who was unharmed, settled back on the fleeing Englishman’s tail. Again the German opened fire, willing the plane to drop, his frustration and fear mounting.

Turn back. Leave him before it is too late. No! Fall! You must fall!

The ruins of Vaux-sur-Somme sped by ninety feet below. The planes roared over the village. Startled Australian soldiers ran from their billets to see the commotion. Spent shell casings from Richthofen’s guns clattered to the streets.

More speed. No! No, throttle back! Aim. Aim well–

They contour-hopped over a rise and turned away from the river, the planes flying barely twenty meters above the ground. Richthofen’s sense of urgency grew. He anticipated the attacking camel’s return, a second strafing pass. I’m running out of time. Fall! FALL!

Richthofen saw khaki uniforms, a flicker of light below and to the left. Heard the whine of Lewis gun bullets whipping past. Heavy ground fire! The English!  Somehow, in the heat of battle, he had passed over the German lines. The English! Heavens above, the English!

His machine shuddered with hits. Breaking off pursuit, Richthofen banked the Triplane sharply right, and held the turn until he faced the German lines. Quickly! Must gain altitude— 

A wheel-mounted Lewis gun flashed. A bullet passed through the canvass walls of the cockpit, catching Richthofen below the right armpit and tearing through his heart.

Richthofen’s head snapped over and he clawed off his flight goggles. The oxygen left his brain as he fought the plane to the ground. Dying, a final thought came to him: what will come of poor old Moritz…

Somersaulting on impact, the Fokker hung like a cross in a tree.

 

THE END

*************

READ ANOTHER ONE LIKE THIS: http://www.gizelbook.com/five-minute-escape-the-surrender/

For more information about the Red Baron, please click the following links:

For a general overview, try: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manfred_von_Richthofen

For further info, click: http://acepilots.com/wwi/ger_richthofen.html

Or: http://history1900s.about.com/od/1910s/a/redbaron.htm

ABOUT THIS BLOG… Each “Five-Minute Escape” short adventure story in this blog series will be kept under 1500 words. Most will clock in at about 1000. The “Five-Minute Escape” short adventure story will allow you to log on, take a fast trip, and get back quick to what you should have been doing in the first place…though hopefully the experience will stay with you long after you have moved on to something else. Subscribe to the “Five-Minute Escape” short adventure story blog and take a weekly “Five-Minute Escape!” “Five-Minute Escape“ short adventure story: 81st Kill copyrighted Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

 

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“Five-Minute Escape” short science fiction story: “Grubs”

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June 6, 2013

Mini adventures. Mini Sci-Fi. Mini History. Mini Fantasy. Mini-escapes. What you can expect from the…

“Five-Minute Escape”

short science fiction story.

 

THE MOON GRUBS

 Copyright Terofil A. Gizelbach, 2013

 

“Horrible boogers, ain’t they? That’s why I called you, Doc. I can’t even show ‘em for fear of the kiddies wettin’ their drawer’s at the sight of ‘em. Heck, they give me the willies and I’m used to the little nightmares. Darndest thing I ever saw…”

Jack Billingsley mopped the sweat from his brow. “SEE ‘IT!’, ELEVENTH WONDER OF THE UNIVERSE!” “VISIT ‘IT!’ IN THUNDERBIRD CANYON!” “DON’T TELL YOUR FRIENDS THAT YOU MISSED ‘IT!’ And of course, just plain “IT!” Signs, shouting across six-hundred miles of desert highway. Dozens of signs. Huge. Orange. Bold letters in red towering over the cactus signs. Crass, obnoxious, practically screaming out loud signs.

“IT!” turned out to be a root covered in fuzz and twisted in the shape of a man. But this…

This was fantastic.

Jack glanced up at the proprietor of the trading post, a greasy fat man by the name of Homes, T.H. Homes.

“Where did you say you got this again?” Jack asked.

“I didn’t,” Homes answered, grinning. “But off the record, Doc, I got it up Winslow way in the federal lands. Let’s just say I didn’t come by it strictly legal like.”

Adjusting his glasses, Jack stared down at the large glass jar on the table. Desert and highway sounds drifted in through the single fly-blown window. They were alone, in Homes’s office back of the souvenir shop. The claustrophobic, shack-like, wood-slatted room was air-conditioned—barely—but Jack felt sweat beading his forehead.

He bent down level with the dusty jar and peered in. The things were moving… Squirming really. Putrid, greenish yellow, grub-like creatures—with huge, champing mandibles and dead, shiny eyes without pupils. They crawled over one another with clawed caterpillar feet, lazily, clumsily, mewing as they tumbled and writhed. There were six of the things, the largest about five inches in length. The nearest turned to regard Jack through the glass, yellowish saliva dripping from its jaws. Antennae bobbed. Jack shrunk back involuntarily.

“Kinda take you by surprise, don’t they, Doc? There’s something not exactly…right about them. Not quite…earthly, you might say.”

Jack gulped and nodded. “And you say they hatched…out of a meteorite?”

“Gnawed their way out, more like it. They munch through rock same as you’d eat through a banana. Heckova thing to see, like maggots coming out of meat. For some reason they don’t seem to like glass, though. Maybe silica gives ‘em indigestion.”

“This is beyond anything I’ve ever seen…I…I don’t know what to say…”

“You don’t know the half of it, Doc. The more these devils eat, the more they breed. Give one a rock and pretty soon you have ten of the little horrors. Darndest thing I’ve ever saw. And they don’t leave much in the way of droppings. Just let out a little gas. Like I said–”

Jack struggled to regain his composure. “I know, darndest thing you ever saw,” he said. “Pass me that piece of granite, please. I’d like to see what happens for myself.”

Homes shrugged and handed Jack the stone. “Suit yourself, Doc. But be prepared. It ain’t pretty.”

Using a pair of tongs, Jack gently placed the chunk of granite into the jar. The nearest “moon grub”—or so Jack had dubbed them in his mind—lifted its head as if sniffing, antennae twitching, its dead eyes searching. Opening its mandibles, it sprayed yellow saliva over the pebble, which began to steam and bubble. A thorny, spear-shaped tongue dug into the rock and drew it into its jaws, which began crushing the softened material into fragments. Other tongues, spatula-shaped, greedily scooped the crumbs into its tiny, pinkish-red maw. Its mewing intensified as it devoured the granite.

“Incredible!” Jack whispered, transfixed. “I…I can’t believe it…”

“There’s more, Doc,” Homes said, wetting his lips nervously. “Watch.”

As Jack looked on, gasses steamed from a vent at the thing’s rear, and, humping its body, it began extruding one-inch diameter eggs from its tail: green, shiny, and perfectly round. As Homes had said, it produced only a tiny amount of waste.

Jack shook his head. “It uses acid to soften the rock which it then takes to sustain itself and to generate offspring. Most of its waste material appears to be being converted into base gasses. Only a fraction of its excrement is solid. I must have eggs for study—”

“Way ahead of you, Doc. Put some in a jar for you up at the front counter. When you want ‘em to hatch, just throw ‘em some pebbles. Food brings ‘em right around.”

“Do you have the meteorite that they arrived in? It would help tremendously if I could examine it.”

“Yeah…anyway, I got what’s left of it. They pretty much ate it to pieces before I got it home. You can pick up a chunk if you want, take it back with you. Always happy to help science…just don’t tell ‘em where I got it, huh?”

“Yes, yes,” Jack mumbled absent-mindedly, examining a meteorite fragment. “It’s brittle,” he said after a minute. “Almost flakes apart in your hand. Not like any meteorite, I’ve ever seen…and yet it is a meteorite. I can see that too, from its composition. The creatures must have broken down its molecular structure with their saliva…God, the way they breed…if even one got out…”

“There wouldn’t be anything left of the planet but a big ball of them horrible things,” Homes finished. “Now you know why I called. C’mon, Doc, I’ll walk you to the door.”

Still in a semi-state of shock, Jack passed through the shop and took the jar as it was handed to him. The “eggs” rattled as they shifted. He stared in anxiously, half expecting the things to hatch. But they remained as they were: green, hard, shiny, and perfectly round. Jack clamped his hand over the jar’s lid.

“Don’t worry, Doc. They only hatch if they sense food. Just keep ‘em away from rock ‘till you’re ready to study ‘em and you’ll be fine.”

Jack nodded and followed Homes out into the approaching night. The fading sunlight burnished the rock towers of ThunderbirdCanyon to a deep golden red. Shadows from the saguaro cactus and jumbled boulders ran the length of the parking lot and threw the trading post into darkness. A few customers chatted by their cars. Jack and Homes stood for a moment on the porch and gazed at the sun setting over the mountains in a fiery blaze.

“A land of rock on a world of rock,” Jack said. “We were lucky, Homes, very lucky. This time.”

He was about to leave when the boy stopped him.

“Hey, Mister,” the boy said, brushing back his blonde hair nervously and pointing at the jar. “How do they work?”

Jack shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, young man.”

“Those trick Super Balls, Mister. I tried bouncing it, but it just made a hole in the ground. I knew I shouldn’t have taken it, Mister, but I just wanted to try it out before I bought it. So how do I get it back? I’ll pay you for it, honest I will. Please say you won’t tell my mom.”

Jack felt his mouth go dry. Homes’s voice sounded scratchy, far-away, and very old. “You said you took one of these here balls, Son? Are you sure? You don’t mean maybe one of the others?”

“No, Sir. I like the green ones. They bounce higher.”

“Where is it, Son,” Homes asked, voice croaky, “Where? Where?”

“Over there, by that little cloud of steam. How do you make ‘em do that, Mister? Are they some kinda fireworks or something?”

Jack stared with horror at the rising wisps of yellowish vapor. “Oh…oh, God! Maybe…Maybe we can kill it…maybe if we hurry—”

“Whoops!” Said the boy, pointing at a second geyser. “There’s another one!”

 

 

THE END

 

*************

READ ANOTHER ONE LIKE THIS: http://www.gizelbook.com/five-minute-escape-short-short-story-the-last-peanut/

For more information about meteorites, please click the following fascinating link:

For a general overview, try: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meteorite

For further info, click: http://meteorite.org/

ABOUT THIS BLOG… Each “Five-Minute Escape“ short science fiction story in this blog series will be kept under 1500 words; most will clock in at about 500. The “Five-Minute Escape” short science fiction story will allow you to log on, take a fast trip, and get back quick to what you should have been doing in the first place…though hopefully the experience will stay with you long after you have moved on to something else. Subscribe to the blog and take a weekly…”Five-Minute Escape!” “Five-Minute Escape“ short science fiction story copyrighted Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

 

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“Five-Minute Escape” short adventure story: Vengeance

Filed Under: Blog by admin — 2 Comments
May 29, 2013

Mini adventures. Mini Sci-Fi. Mini History. Mini Fantasy. Mini-escapes. What you can expect from the…

“Five-Minute Escape”

short adventure story.

 

EVENT: “THE SOUND OF VENGEANCE”

TIME: Before Recorded History. PLACE: The Great Desert Wastes

 Copyright Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

 

She stood boldly in the campfire’s glow, surrounded by the chieftain and his band.

“Do I look like a child that you can dazzle with your lies, Tandor?” she asked. “Pig! You sent him to die!”

Tandor smiled, and offered up his palms. “You wrong me, girl. The Tsoggoth slew him; or he slew himself by going. I had no hand in it. He made his choice.”

“You goaded him into facing the Tsoggoth! You knew he would fight if you challenged his pride!”

Tandor shook his head with mock sympathy. “Amanth always did think well of himself. It was his undoing, I think. But he cut the creature ere he died, slashed its wing. You should sing his praises to the gods, girl. He died a hero.”

“Aye, and his death, Tandor, made you chieftain.”

Tandor laughed and fingered his scimitar. “That,” he said, grinning, “cannot be helped. Choose one of us, Selena. Pick me. You will make a beautiful companion; I’ve thought so ever since you straggled in half-dead from the Wastes. Choose me, girl, and I will drape your pretty curves with jewels looted from the finest caravans from Zantibar.”

Selena hissed through her teeth. “I would kill you first, pig,” she said, the firelight playing off her red hair as she raised her bow. “And I will kill you now if you make a step towards me. Verily, I will skewer any fool here who moves to touch me!”

She stared at them, the lone woman in a nomadic raiding party. Swarthy, bearded faces, ugly with lust, stared back at her. But not one among them moved.

“Cowards!” she spat. “Amanth was worth ten of you! He was a man. Kind. Strong. Decent. You wait here for the Tsoggoth to prey upon you one at a time. I go to avenge his death!”

She backed slowly away from the men—her bow string taut—until she reached the edge of the light. Then she turned and strode rapidly into the darkness.

“Such waste,” she heard Tandor call after her. “A pity you must die…”

 

*****

 

She stood alone, on rock stained by Amanth’s blood, her slim figure outlined by stars in the plateau’s cold, wind-swept darkness.

You should have listened to me, Amanth. I begged you not to go…

Drawing the robe tight over her mail against the cold, Selena looked to the red campfire flickering in the Wastes far below. How foolish Tandor was to light a blaze on a night when the Tsoggoth took wing.

“Ah,” she whispered to herself, “but he expects that I will be its prey. You misjudge me, Tandor; I will not die. I’ve not the strength to match a Tsoggoth, but my bow arm will be ready. And I will fight!”

The hour was late when at last the Tsoggoth appeared from the stars. Ten times the length of a man, it soared across the moon and blotted away its light in an endless flow of fangs, scale, and claw.  It wheeled effortlessly, turning on green leathery wings, golden eyes aflame. With a piercing screech, it dove: armored scales glittering with moon glow; pinions folded close to its ribbon body; its talons distended, quivering.

Selena dropped to a knee as it swept in shadow overhead. Pulling the bowstring to her ear, she unleashed an arrow that melted into the thing’s belly. It turned, flew directly upward and then paused, silhouetted against the night sky, impossibly huge, its wings spread in a cross. It bellowed in anger, its roar clapping the plateau like a thunder roll.

It is a storm, she thought. And like a storm it cannot be defeated. But I must defeat you, storm creature, and you will die—for Amanth. Or I must die trying.

It dove again, its giant wings beating against the night. It grew, until it seemed that the entire world was a Tsoggoth and that it must crush her. Selena resisted the urge to flee, to cower against the earth. Drawing her bowstring, she prayed and let another arrow fly. A claw tore her mail, bloodied her skin. She cried out, staggered to a knee. The Tsoggoth roared overhead, staring with its ancient golden eyes.

Like a pin prick to an oliphant, she thought, nocking another arrow and wincing from her torn shoulder. I must slay it quickly ere it slays me…but how? Where is its weakness?

 The creature hove to, wings pounding like kettle drums, the vibration coursing through Selena’s sandals, causing her legs to shake. It lunged, a vision of teeth: razor-edged, white; jaws: snapping; and golden eyes—toad like, glaring—

Eyes! Its golden eye!

The Tsoggoth caught her in its talons as she drew. Selena aimed and released, her shaft blinding the thing’s golden eye.  The creature stiffened, roared. She gasped as talons dug into her mail. Coiling its neck moonward, its jaws snapped convulsively, sending blood splatters flying. It keeled over, limbs flailing; crashed heavily to the ground in a cloud of dust. Selena, caught in its talons, was slammed to the rock. In a daze, she fought free as the Tsoggoth writhed its death throes.

“For you, Amanth,” she said as it died. “I killed it for you.”

 

*****

 

She stood just beyond the campfire’s glow and threw the bloody Tsoggoth’s claw into their midst.  In a rattle of scimitars, the startled raiders glanced up from their circle.

“Is that you, girl?” Tandor asked, looking to the shadows. “Speak!”

Selena spoke. “It is dead, pig. I slew it. And you were wrong, Tandor; I am still very much alive.”

Tandor grinned into the darkness. “Then come into the firelight, girl. Come hither and claim your prize.”

The men laughed.

Selena, invisible in her black robes, remained very still. “Nay, I think I will stay where I am, Tandor. I have my bow; it is dark and you will not find me. And I will kill you—any of you—if you move beyond the campfire’s light,” she said in a quiet voice. “By Amanth’s spilled blood, I swear you will drop before you take two steps.”

Tandor frowned, less sure of himself. “So I stay. But for how long? Until dawn perhaps? You cannot kill us all, Selena. Not if we can see you. We have bows too.”

It was Selena’s turn to laugh. “I have not long to wait, nor have you. It is coming. My hearing always was better than yours, Tandor.”

“What is coming, Selena? The sun? The Tsoggoth is dead. You killed it!”

“Fool! I killed a Tsoggoth, Tandor…not the Tsoggoth. It had no slash on its wing, the thing that died. That which I slew must have been its mate. It seems well, does it not? It killed my mate, I slew its mate. Now it comes to kill you. In my black robe the Tsoggoth will not notice me, but it will mark you well in the firelight. And after you are slain, I shall kill it…and the circle will be complete.”

“Listen, Tandor,” she said. “Is it coming? Do you hear? Do you hear?”

From the cold stars, the men heard the beating of leathery wings…

“Listen well, Tandor, listen well! ’Tis the sound of…vengeance!”

 

THE END

 *************

For more information about dragons, please click the following fascinating link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dragon

 

ABOUT THIS BLOG… Each “Five-Minute Escape“ short adventure story in this blog series will be kept under 1500 words; most will clock in at about 500. The “Five-Minute Escape” short adventure story will allow you to log on, take a fast trip, and get back quick to what you should have been doing in the first place…though hopefully the experience will stay with you long after you have moved on to something else. Subscribe to the blog and take a weekly…”Five-Minute Escape!” “Five-Minute Escape“ short adventure story copyrighted Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

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“Five-Minute Escape” short science fiction: “Peanut”

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May 21, 2013

 

Mini adventures. Mini Sci-Fi. Mini History. Mini Fantasy. Mini-escapes. What you can expect from the…

“Five-Minute Escape”

short science fiction story.

 

EVENT: “THE LAST PEANUT”

TIME: The year 2187. PLACE: The Rain Planet Plineius V

Copyright Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

 

“Arthur! Do you have water in your ears? I asked if that creature is dangerous!”

Arthur Dolescomb looked up from his guidebook to the natural wonders of the rain planet Plineius V and sighed.

“No…no, I don’t think so, dear. Nothing in the park is considered harmful to man. However, it is a wild creature, Edna, and I hardly think it advisable to bother—“

“I didn’t ask you to think, Arthur, I asked if that…that thing is planning something horrible! You have the guidebook…just what exactly is it anyway?

Arthur stared at the thing on the pathway, decided the creature resembled nothing so much as a large mound of wilting lettuce, and consulted his guidebook. Rain pattered violently against the surrounding Ylinthis Palms, and Arthur, feeling the mist seeping through his air shield, turned up the molecular generator on his collar. The contraption, which also kept Plineius V’s ferocious insect population at bay, promptly agitated the air molecules surrounding his body. The resulting barrier kept Arthur safe and dry.

Edna on the other hand…

Edna was miserable. Edna was always miserable, mind you, but today, dripping, soggy, her thin, angular frame nearly moldy from the incessant downpour, Edna was particularly miserable. Arthur decided it was in his best interests to answer quickly.

“The book doesn’t say much about it, dear, but its name is Pacifistus Melodius. Sounds friendly enough, I’d say.”

“Disgusting blob! It looks like a overturned bowl of putrefying salad,” she said. “In fact, everything about this godforsaken planet is disgusting! Why did you bring me to this hideous jungle, Arthur? I wanted a decent vacation!”

Arthur rubbed his pudgy fingers over his balding forehead. “I did the best I could dear. You spent all our vacation money on your fusty old wardrobe artifacts. What is that contraption anyway? Can’t you just turn on your molecular generator? You’d be a whole lot drier. You’d probably feel a lot brighter too.”

Edna frowned. “I prefer to use my umbrella, thank you. It’s fashionably retro and makes me feel chic. Goodness knows,” she said, pulling her shoe out of a mud puddle, “nothing else in this nasty place does. Besides, the rain is stopping.”

Wiping away the rainwater dripping from her nose she regarded the thing quivering on the trail.

“What do you suppose it eats, Arthur?”

“I don’t know. Some native flora, fauna, or other. What does it matter?”

“Give me your sandwich.”

“But Edna, it’s my lunch and I’m hungry—”

“Give it to me!”

Breaking off a piece of the sandwich, she lobbed it on the trail before the creature. The creature stirred. Green folds parted, and a single golden eye regarded the morsel for an instant. Then the green folds closed and the eye disappeared.

“Well, it looked anyway. Didn’t seem to like your sandwich though. Small wonder. How you like sardines is simply beyond me….”

Dropping the sandwich in the mud, she rummaged in a cavernous purse done in the ancient style.

“Oh, Edna, my lunch—”

“Quiet! You can buy yourself something later at the snack stand… Ah-ha! Pea-nuts!”

Smiling triumphantly, Edna shoved the bag of nuts in Arthur’s hand. “Throw it a peanut.” She demanded.

“I’d rather not, dear. As I said—”

“Do it!”

Arthur sighed and halfheartedly tossed the creature a peanut, missing by several feet. Again the green folds parted.

“Oh, give them here!” Grabbing back the peanut bag, Edna launched several peanuts at the thing, one of which hit the creature’s open eye. The thing seemed to moan and shuffled back a pace or two. Edna followed, jabbing at the creature with her umbrella.

“Edna! No! Don’t antag—”

“Take it! Take the peanut!” Edna shouted, poking vigorously. “Why don’t you just take it!”

The green folds parted a final time and a forest of tentacles embraced Edna.

Arthur began to scream.

“The creature just couldn’t take it,” he wrote later on the missing persons report.

THE END

*************

READ ANOTHER ONE LIKE THIS: http://www.gizelbook.com/five-minute-escape-short-short-story-the-contest/

  For more information about the possibility of alien life on other planets, please click the following fascinating links:

For a general overview, try: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Extraterrestrial_life

For an interesting older (2005) article put out by NASA, try: http://www.nasa.gov/centers/goddard/news/topstory/2005/0801frozenworlds.html

ABOUT THIS BLOG… Each “Five-Minute Escape“ short science fiction story in this blog series will be kept under 1500 words; most will clock in at about 500. The “Five-Minute Escape” short science fiction story will allow you to log on, take a fast trip, and get back quick to what you should have been doing in the first place…though hopefully the experience will stay with you long after you have moved on to something else. Subscribe to the blog and take a weekly…”Five-Minute Escape!” “Five-Minute Escape“ short science fiction story copyrighted Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

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“Five-Minute Escape” short adventure story: “Tiger”

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May 15, 2013

Mini adventures. Mini Sci-Fi. Mini History. Mini Fantasy. Mini-escapes. What you can expect from the

“Five-Minute Escape” short adventure story.

EVENT: “THE FIRE OF THE FOREST”

TIME: September 27, 1933. PLACE: The Sundarbans, India

Copyright Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

 

“YOU shouldn’t have followed me, Taral. We dare not go back through the thickets until dawn. Death pads in the mangroves this night.”

Ramesh glanced at the boy standing next to him in the clearing. In the moonlight, the youth’s face seemed very earnest.

“I am twelve years old, Grandfather. I know the ways of the tiger. I have heard your tales of the great hunter Corbett. I can help. I know I can.”

The old man smiled, deepening the wrinkles creasing his ancient face. “Your father, if he were alive, would be proud. But you must stay very close and keep your eyes open very wide. A leaf does not fall as softly as does a tiger’s paw. I would not have you be the forty-first to die.”

“I will do as you say, Grandfather. I will be the eyes in the back of your head.”

The old man nodded, his attention focused back on the forest’s moonlit-dappled walls. The night was very still, with but a whisper of wind that rustled the palm leaves lining the distant riverbank.

The tiger was a mankiller; forty already it had taken from his village. The British had sent help–the hunter “Roberts”—but Roberts had failed, and tonight the old man had seen the tiger in the grove just beyond his dead son’s hut. The hut where he lived with his daughter-in-law and his three grandchildren. The hut and the family that he had promised his son to protect.

“Are you armed, Boy?” He asked, watching the forest’s stillness.

“I have my knife.” Taral spoke with bravado.

The old man nodded and smiled. He carried an ancient long rifle, a musket with a flintlock dated 1807. It had been his father’s rifle, and his father’s rifle before him. Its scarred, worn barrell had been wired down to its ancient wood to compensate for a missing band. Longingly, the old man remembered Jim Corbett’s weapon, his “275” bolt action Model 1893 Mauser. Many shots. Many chances at  survival. The old man and the boy had but one.

“We will wait here in the clearing for a while. I am too old to climb trees and too poor to sacrifice a goat. You must be my ears as well as my eyes, Grandson. I do not hear as well as I once did. Show me the tiger when it comes, Taral. The goddess Bonobibbi will protect us.”

They waited. Far away they could hear village sounds. A barking dog. Cattle lowing. A clinking pail. And the old man remembered his son, a honeygatherer who had died during harvest time by a tiger’s claws. Yet, the old man found that he did not hate the big cat. He knew tigers to be the forest’s heart, its soul painted in the color of flame—and like fire, they were at once beautiful and orange, and black and deadly. And, he thought, mysterious. He knew tigers to be afraid of man, and the old man wondered what had driven this particular animal to turn man-eater. Was it lame? Toothless? Unable to hunt the swift Chital deer that lived in the thickets? The old man felt sad that this magnificent animal must die. Life, he thought, was filled with bitter choices; decisions that killed both beauty and soul in the name of survival. He hoped that he would not live to see a time when the tiger did not rule the Sundarban’s mangroves.

“I heard something, Grandfather,” Taral whispered. “Beyond the trees. There, in the tall grasses.”

Ramesh stared where the boy had pointed, towards the lace of branches and the waving grasses beyond. Though he strained his eyes, he saw nothing.

“It may circle, boy, and come at us from the forest or the thickets. Look behind. Point me so that I might shoot. Do not fail me, Grandson, or it will be the death of us.”

Again the old man looked to the grass. This time he thought he spotted movement, a ghostly glide of shadow and darkness behind the moon-silvered blades, but he could not be sure. Show yourself to me, Tiger, he willed. Show yourself so that we might meet as warriors.

But the night remained as before: trees swaying in the gentle wind, leaves rustling…but now the forest sounds were hushed. No night birds split the quiet. The cattle in the village had ceased their lowing. Even the insects were still.

He is near.  Very near.

At his back, the old man could feel his grandson. The closeness of Taral caused him to fear, to clench his rifle tighter in his gnarled hands. The old man had not many years left, his life was of but little consequence…but the boy… The boy must be saved.

Sacrifice me, Bonobibbi, if you must. But leave my grandson be…

Sweat trickled down the old man’s spine.

In the village, dogs began barking fiercely, causing the old man to start.

“There, Grandfather! There!”

Ramesh man spun and aimed his rifle first at the thicket where the boy was pointing. Then instinct caused him to jerk his rifle back towards the forest, where a shadow had split from the gloom. Vaulting into the moonlight, it came: in orange and blackness, as if night lived on it pelt. Its fangs were white, gleaming; its muscles, flanks rippling; its eyes flashing. The boy cried out and moved to stab the Bengal with his knife. Sidestepping and knocking the youth back, Ramesh pulled the trigger. The explosion drowned out his grandson’s voice and tore the belly from the night in a blinding flash. The old man was lifted and thrown to the ground. A great weight covered him, tiger smell thick in his nostrils. He braced, expecting teeth, claws, death. But the heaviness remained motionless, and the tiger smell was replaced by the scent of blood.

“Are you well, Grandfather?” Ramesh heard a voice asking. “Are you hurt?”

The old man pulled free of the tiger and stood, feeling his bones. He could see that the animal was ancient and that its teeth were broken. This then is what drove it to prey on the village.

“I am well, Grandson,” he said, suddenly weary.

Taral stared at his grandfather with awe. “You killed him, Grandfather. With just one shot you brought him down! Corbett himself could not have done better!”

Ramesh shook his head, knowing that if Corbett were here, he would share in his sadness. “Killing is nothing to be proud of, grandson. You will understand in time.”

Bowing his head, Ramesh offered up a prayer to Bonobibbi. Then he knelt by the tiger and stroked its grayed muzzle. “I am sorry,” he whispered. “Please forgive me, I only did it because I must. The Sundarbans are diminished with your passing. You, old one, were the fire in the heart of the forest.”

The two heard voices, shouts, calls. Men were approaching from the village. The hunter Roberts’ voice was among them.

“That man, Roberts, he is nothing like Corbett,” the boy said. “He will say that it was he who downed the tiger.”

The old man smiled and rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “What does it matter, grandson? For tonight you, your mother, brother, and sister…this night, you sleep without fear.”

 

THE END

************************

READ ANOTHER ONE LIKE THIS: http://www.gizelbook.com/five-minute-escape-the-surrender/

Since the setting of this story, tiger population in the Sundarbans has dwindled to perhaps 200 to 300 animals, though some experts claim as few as 100 remain. New methods are being explored to prevent human deaths due to tigers. People must be protected, but hunting is no longer the only answer if we hope to save the tiger from extinction. Even tigers in zoos are at risk. For more information about saving the tiger, please see: http://worldwildlife.org/species/tiger.

For more information about tigers in general, please try this excellent link:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tiger.

For more information about the hunter turned conservationist Jim Corbett, please try: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jim_Corbett. (Choose the link for Jim Corbett, Hunter)

To paraphrase the old man, it would be a shame to live in a world without wild tigers.

ABOUT THIS BLOG…

Each “Five-Minute Escape“ short adventure story in this blog series will be kept under 1500 words; most will clock in at about 500. The “Five-Minute Escape” short adventure story will allow you to log on, take a fast trip, and get back quick to what you should have been doing in the first place…though hopefully the experience will stay with you long after you have moved on to something else. Subscribe to the blog and take a weekly…”Five-Minute Escape!”

“Five-Minute Escape“ short adventure story copyrighted Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

 

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“Five-Minute Escape” short-short story: The Contest”

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May 7, 2013

 

Mini adventures. Mini Sci-Fi. Mini History. Mini Fantasy. Mini-escapes. That’s what you can expect from the “Five-Minute Escape” short-short story!

TIME: Before. PLACE: Far Away

EVENT: “THE CONTEST”

Copyright Terofil Gizelbach 2013

“Prepare to be terminated, TX17!”

The cyborg Zarg advanced slowly, looking for an opening. TX17 waited, the ‘bot’s body crouching, menacing, poised for a swing.

Zarg struck first, landing a glancing jab on TX17’s shoulder. Shrugging off the blow, the ‘bot laughed. “I would have expected better of you Zarg. You’ve grown weak since our last encounter. Perhaps you rely too much on the other?”

“Just limbering up,” said Zarg. “I will not be defeated this time, TX17. The fate of my people is in my fists. I must win: they have told me so.”

TX17 laughed again. “Your people? They care nothing for you, Zarg! You are expendable. You exist only for this contest. After I break you, your people will abandon you, fool! You are nothing to them. Nothing!”

Zarg snarled, feeling the pain, the truth of TX17’s words. Mindlessly, he waded forward, opening himself to attack in his rage. TX17 swung, clipping Zarg in the chest. Zarg grunted, feeling the shock in his composites. In a haze, he fired back a counter jab blindly. Missed. Retreated. Was hammered as he back-peddled.

“You grow careless, Zarg,” TX17 said, his voice menacing in its calm. “You let your anger direct you. In the end—now—it will defeat you.”

TX17 slid forward, smiling. A fist powered forward, connected, crashed. Stunned, Zarg wobbled. His right arm dangled uselessly. In desperation, he jabbed again. Missed again. Felt a punishing blow slam his forehead.

“Goodbye, Zarg,” he heard TX17 say. Then Zarg swung. He struck with all the strength remaining to him. He struck, his fear, his rage giving him extra strength. He struck for the controller who had already abandoned him, convinced of his defeat.

And connected.

With a joy that was almost religious in its fervor, Zarg watched as TX17’s red head popped up from his body.

He hoped the controller would be happy.

 

********

 

“Hey! What a gyp! How did you do that? You didn’t even have your hands on the joysticks!”

Bobby Espiranto stared down at the “Battlin’ ‘Bot’s” toy boxing ring and frowned. “I didn’t do anything, Johnny,” he said. “It must have popped a spring or something and clocked your ‘Bot by accident. Anyway, I won. I knocked your Bot’s block off.”

“Yeah, you cheated you mean,” said Johnny Franzen. “You taking your hands off the joysticks was just a way to make me drop my guard! I know a gyp when I see one!”

“Honest, I didn’t, Johnny-Boy. The crummy thing must be busted.”

“Well…all right. But don’t take your hands off next time till after I knock your block off, OK?”

“Deal,” said Bobby. “Say…you don’t suppose maybe it did it somehow? I mean, maybe it didn’t wanna lose, or something.”

Johnny laughed. “It’s a toy, dummy! Next you’ll be tellin’ me they have feelings. C’mon, dopey, lets go outside and play with something else.”

“Yeah, OK,” said Bobby. “Let’s go. Who needs this junky thing anyhow?”

 

THE END

For a really “Boss” clip showing the “Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robot” toy in action, please visit the following site: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xV7cx4cQOuU

 

ABOUT THIS BLOG…

Each “Five-Minute Escape“ short-short story in this blog series will be kept under 1500 words; most will clock in at about 500. The “Five-Minute Escape” short-short story will allow you to log on, take a fast trip, and get back quick to what you should have been doing in the first place…though hopefully the experience will stay with you long after you have moved on to something else. Subscribe to the blog and take a weekly…”Five-Minute Escape!”

The “Five-Minute Escape” short-short story is copyrighted Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

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“Five-Minute Escape” short-short story: “The Stampede”

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May 3, 2013

Mini adventures. Mini Sci-Fi. Mini History. Mini Fantasy. Mini-escapes. That’s what you can expect from the “Five-Minute Escape” short-short story!

TIME: April 17, 1869. PLACE: Midway to Abilene, Texas, riding the Chisholm Trail.

EVENT: “THE STAMPEDE!”

Copyright Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

 

Cutter never knew what spooked ‘em.

He only knew that a minute earlier the ground had exploded into a rumble, and that the dust had swirled up in night clouds cut with fleeting moonlit glimpses of galloping longhorns with lolling tongues and wide frightened eyes. There was no turning this herd: they came in a wall. A yell would be swallowed in the pounding of hooves like a yippee in a thunderstorm. A gunshot would only spook them to gallop faster. They would have to stretch themselves out.

Cutter bent to the saddle and was swept alongside, praying that his mount, Angel, had eyes better than his own, and that the palomino would be surefooted. Watch fer gopher holes, he urged her mentally, taking hold of the saddle horn. Don’t you step in no dang crack, Girl.

The chuck wagon loomed ahead, and Cutter saw Cookie diving for the safety of a buckboard. The stampede rushed past, stamping down bedrolls and saddles. Cooking utensils, pots, and dinners were pounded into ruination. Cutter cursed, and wove Angel through the debris. He heard the crack of a pistol ahead, saw the shadowy figure of another rider. Save yer dern ammo, Cutter thought. Aint nothin’ stoppin’ this skedaddle but a case of the tireds.

The stampede rumbled on, irresistible, surging. The rider was lost in veils of dust. Cutter heard no more shots.

The cattle swung right, angling between two thickets of mesquite. Angel stumbled, and Cutter jumped from the saddle as the horse went down. He hit on one knee, felt a jabbing pain. Angel righted herself and was off, reins flopping wildly behind.

Cutter staggered up and began to run for the mesquites, feeling the rumble from the cows through his boot heels. A longhorn brushed past, catching his shirt with a horn, then was swallowed by the stampede. Cutter ran in a hobble, cursing the stabbing pain in his knee. He saw an arm of the herd wheel in his direction, and redoubled his efforts. He could smell them, in a musk of hot, sweaty, frightened, and dusty.

Heedless of thorns, Cutter threw himself at the nearest mesquite. It was a small squatty thing, and Cutter prayed that it would shield him. He clambered up, the branches razoring his cheek. He could sense them coming—not by the sound, which was deafening—but by the trembling of the mesquite as he climbed.

The herd thundered past, parting, sweeping by in a mad rush that ended at the edge of a ravine some three miles distant.

The dust began to settle.

Cutter stared after the herd for a long moment, savoring the breath in his lungs. Then he went about the business of extricating himself from the thorns and branches of the mesquite, and cursing the ruination of his favorite shirt.

“You lookin’ fer fruit, Cutter?” drawled a voice from behind. “I might be plum wrong, but that don’t look like no dang apple tree to me.”

Cutter flushed. He’d hoped to recover his mount before being discovered. Wiping the blood and dirt from his face, he said: “Nah. Thought I’d have a climb here and have a look see. Never seen a stampede from a tree afore. Was mite interestin’. You oughta try her sometime, Spencer.”

The rider cracked a grin across a grizzled jaw and offered up a calloused hand. “I reckon sometime I will, Cutter. I just reckon I will.”

 

The End

 

(For more information about the Chisholm Trail, please try this excellent link:  http://www.kancoll.org/khq/1936/36_1_rossel.htm

ABOUT THIS BLOG…

Each “Five-Minute Escape“ short-short story in this blog series will be kept under 1500 words; most will clock in at about 500. The “Five-Minute Escape” short-short story will allow you to log on, take a fast trip, and get back quick to what you should have been doing in the first place…though hopefully the experience will stay with you long after you have moved on to something else. Subscribe to the blog and take a weekly…”Five-Minute Escape!”

The “Five-Minute Escape” short-short story is copyrighted Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

 

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“Five-Minute Escape” short-short story: The Dream”

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May 1, 2013

Mini adventures. Mini Sci-Fi. Mini History. Mini Fantasy. Mini-escapes. That’s what you can expect from the “Five-Minute Escape” short-short story!

TIME: November 21, 1944. PLACE: Onboard a night train bound for San Diego.

EVENT: “THE DREAM”

Copyright Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

 

The scent of her perfume woke him.

The train rocked gently. Track clacked away into the night. The window vibrated against his cheek. He was aware of her, like a dream, before he opened his eyes.

She stood five feet from him, in the aisle, her face lovely in profile, in the light that flashed intermittently from the windows. Her brown hair curled over her shoulders, golden with highlights. She wore an expensive evening dress, a mystery in coach. He could feel her sadness.

He watched her sleepily, through half lashes, inexplicably loving her, even though five minutes before he had not known of her existence.

She turned and sat three seats up, clenching a magazine, which she twisted in nervous hands. She stared out the window, into the darkness, the softness of her cheek beckoning. In the loneliness of the deserted car she filled his heart.

Who was she? What was she doing here? He closed his eyes, imagining her, imagining being with her. Wishing that there was no war, no Marines. Wishing that his leave was beginning, not ending, and that he wasn’t due on base in the morning…

A station clanged past. He awoke with a start.

She was gone.

He went to her seat. Found her discarded magazine. Took it, held it gently. Sat in her seat, missing her. Wishing that he had talked to her. Comforted her. Known her.

For a long time, he stared out her window into the dark, holding the magazine. He could still smell her perfume on the pages.

 

THE END

**********************

READ ANOTHER LIKE THIS: http://www.gizelbook.com/five-minute-escape-the-surrender/

(For more information about troop movement on trains during World War II, please check out this excellent link: http://www.cwrr.com/Lounge/Stories/troops/troops.html)

 

ABOUT THIS BLOG…

Each “Five-Minute Escape“ short-short story in this blog series will be kept under 1500 words; most will clock in at about 500. The “Five-Minute Escape” short-short story will allow you to log on, take a fast trip, and get back quick to what you should have been doing in the first place…though hopefully the experience will stay with you long after you have moved on to something else. Subscribe to the blog and take a weekly…”Five-Minute Escape!”

The “Five-Minute Escape” short-short story is copyrighted Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

 

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“Five-Minute Escape” short-short story: Hack-Job

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April 27, 2013

Mini adventures. Mini Sci-Fi. Mini History. Mini Fantasy. Mini-escapes. That’s what you can expect from the “Five-Minute Escape” short-short story!

TIME: Stardate 2348. PLACE: Star Sector Poluria onboard the Star Freighter “Tiberias”

EVENT: “HACK-JOB”

Kill a rogue E-5 Unit before it takes out the ten crewman trapped on the Hangar deck…Great. Ask me something easy, Security Officer Cash thought as he checked the load in his autogun. Twenty rounds, nitro-tipped. Enough to cut through anything but a ship’s hull. Enough to knock down an E-5. Even a hack-job that had killed two crewmen. If he could catch it napping…

Like all “aware” machinery, the E-5 Loader was docile normally. But somebody had altered this one’s programming. No brainer, probably a competing corporate council. Shut down the interplanetary transports and you shut down the corporation.

Cash shuffled forward, sweat trickling into his eyes. He ran a sleeve across his forehead. Soldiering was not really in his line. He was a security officer—but of the online kind, protecting the ship’s computers. He listened for the E5 as he moved, heard the deck plates thrumming ominously with vibrations from the ion propulsion unit in the engineering deck below. He rounded a corner, autogun poised, checking the corridor outside the hangar first with his intel-cam. Blue halls, exposed aluminum flooring…a body, sprawled across the deck. Victim number three. Cash nudged the man with his boot, checking for signs of life.

“Crewman down by airlock 2B. Talk to me, Bridge, I need intel–”

“Roger, the E5’s in Hangar bay 2-B, turning your direction,” his earpiece crackled back urgently. “Twenty meters and closing–”

So close. He stared pensively at the sign for hangar bay 2B. Paused his finger above its air lock release button. E-5’s weren’t conventionally armed; it had killed using its loading grippers. But if it’s waiting on the other side…

Cash triggered the hatch release button and darted into the hangar. He had a brief glimpse of towering shuttles, piles of machinery, shadows. The door clanged behind. Cash spun involuntarily at the noise, knowing even as he did so that it was a mistake. He felt himself being lifted; was hurled four meters to the deck, losing his autogun.

Cash rolled, grunting in pain as his arm flopped unnaturally beneath him. The  autogun—There! A meter, maybe less. The E-5—

Attacking. Treads spinning, it bore down upon him. Grippers extended. 450 man-killing kilograms of steel, reaching­–

Cash lunged for his weapon, moaning. The E-5’s gripper snapped down on his injured arm. With his left hand he clawed up the autogun, braced it against the deck.

“Trigger, pull, autofire—”

“Now! Now!” Explosions ripped through the hangar. Metal chunks flew from the E-5 in mini starbursts. The machine lurched, its vis-sensors blinking, its “brain” housing disintegrating into fragments. Cash grunted; shrapnel tore his shoulder. “He forced the autogun back on target, two rounds tipping the unit. Trigger, trigger, trigger, die, dammit, die! He fired, gritting his teeth, feeding more shots into the thing’s steel underbelly…until, after a second or two, the weapon clicked to empty and flames consumed the Loader.

I got it…got it…

He regarded the loader, remembering how to breathe. A lone vis-sensor stared back from the wreckage, wreathed in smoke. Firelight played off Cash’s fatigues and illuminated the shuttles looming overhead.

“I don’t understand,” said Cash over the crackle of the flames. “Why hack an E-5, one lousy E-5? Why not just hack the entire ship? It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t m—”

He stiffened as, almost in answer, the vibrations from the ion propulsion unit in the engineering deck below ceased. Behind him, the airlock doors slid open. A generator hummed to life. With agonizing slowness, the hangar doors opened. He turned, watching the black slit between widening, yawning…

A diversion. The E-5 was nothing but a diversion to keep me busy.

Cash stared into deep space as air rushed from the ship. He whispered “No…” when the endless night poured in upon him.

The stars beyond were very cold.

THE END

**********

READ ANOTHER ONE LIKE THIS: http://www.gizelbook.com/five-minute-escape-short-adventure-story-vengeance/

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Each “Five-Minute Escape“ short-short story in this blog series will be kept under 1500 words; most will clock in at about 500. The “Five-Minute Escape” short-short story will allow you to log on, take a fast trip, and get back quick to what you should have been doing in the first place…though hopefully the experience will stay with you long after you have moved on to something else. Subscribe to the blog and take a weekly…”Five-Minute Escape!”

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