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“Five-Minute Escape” short suspense story: “The Ride”

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August 19, 2013

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

“Five-Minute Escape”

short suspense story.

TIME: November 16, 1953. PLACE: Deerfield, New Jersey

EVENT: “THE RIDE”

Copyright Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

 

She walked, feeling the darkness, a shadow deeper than the past midnight blackness that strangled the lone streetlamp on Fifteenth Street.

He waited there, just beyond the halo. Beyond the darkened houses, the graveyard-quiet lawns. She could see his cigarette glowing. Smell the greasy kid stuff in his hair. She knew it was him, it had to be him. And part of her, the shadowy, damn-everything side, wanted it to be him. The rest of her shivered at his nearness.

He spoke without speaking. In cool tones, ice-cold. “Come on, baby, take a ride. Let’s cut of this nowhere burg and run. Let’s drive until the sun rolls up and down again, and the headlights burn off the endless white stripes leading into blackness. Go with me, Baby. Ride!”

Behind his sunglasses, his eyes were hidden. But she knew he was staring, daring. “Drive,” he whispered in her mind. “Top-down, full jet, pedal hammered. Drive, baby, drive like a running blaze and feel the night wind blasting your face. Feel the kick, baby, the push. No moon out; no blue light; only the stars. Tonight, baby, we drive in the stars.”

Behind him she saw a car. His car. The car.

“It’s a runner, baby, a rush. It will take us there and beyond. You got nothing here, girl, nothing. Slow death. A dead end job. A withering soul. Yeah, that’s here. That’s all here. But it…it’s out there. Yeah, baby, all this meaningless nowhere shit ends out there…”

Walking faster, she shook her head. She had family. A few friends. No real boyfriend, but she had hope. Yes, hope was here…

“No, Johnny,” she whispered. “No! Not now. Not that way…”

She passed the spot were he stood, hurrying, skirt swishing. His cigarette flared and died. He reached for her–

And Johnny was gone.

But Johnny was already gone.

He had died two years ago, in a car crash off Old Road Bridge.

She could still smell his cigarette smoke in her hair.

 

THE END

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

For more information about the possibility of life after death, please click the following fascinating link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Afterlife

ABOUT THIS BLOG… Each “Five-Minute Escape“ short suspense story in this blog series will be kept under 1500 words; most will clock in at about 500. The “Five-Minute Escape“ short suspense 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 suspense story copyrighted Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

 

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“Five-Minute Escape” short Sci-Fi story: The Portal”

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July 23, 2013

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

“Five-Minute Escape”

short Sci-Fi story.

 

THE PORTAL

Copyright Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

 

 

I’m running in a high tower, an endless white tower, and I hear the sound of boots clicking on the ramp below…

If they catch me they will kill me.

I came in the transference portal in a fiery ring, an experiment in time/space travel. I hit the ground hard, in a heap, shivering. The shivers are part of the transference process—they attack during the leap and hold on for a minute or so, incapacitating you, leaving you drained, weak…

We didn’t know. No one knew. This was our first leap.

But where? Where am I? I do not know; God, I do not know…

It is like a dream. Surreal. Towers and courtyards in stark whites, brilliant, blindingly, gypsum bright. Delineated shadows, sharp, almost razor-edged. Blue cloudless skies, so deep, so blue. A polarized sky, heavy in its blueness. Terror in its blueness. And in the quiet my footsteps, running, pursued, clattering, echoing, swallowed quickly by the air, cool air, despite the harsh sunlight.

I check my locator. The return portal has appeared somewhere above me. But I am tiring. I stop, press myself against a wall. Look down the ramp. I do not see them but I can hear them. Tapping. Nearing. I check my pistol.

They will kill me if they can.

How do I know? I had only a brief glimpse of them. Tall. Thin. Huminoid. Dressed in white tight-fitting clothes without stitching. Oddly proportioned. Strange. Otherworldly. Calves too short. Thighs too long. Flexible arms, whip thin, like tentacles. And most terrifying of all…faceless. Oval white smoothness; no features save slight indentations where mouths and eyes should be. Bump for a nose. Speech, an odd mewing. Evil. Hands, three fingers clutching a thin metal tube…a weapon? Yes, surely a weapon. They will kill me if I let them.

But I will not let them.

They round the curve. I see them. I fire. The bullet snaps off the wall and into space, through the wide windows that line the corridor. They are surprised. But they come back, pointing their metal tubes. A rush of heat sears my shoulder. I do not see a ray or a projectile but I feel the pain.

I scream. I fire again, hit one of the things. It drops. It does not bleed.

Another heat blast burns my arm. My pistol falls. I turn. I run.

They follow.

I run and run and run, but I am tiring. They will catch me.

No–

No, I see the sky! I break into the open. I am on the roof. The portal appears, shimming, a light pool into which I must dive. But it hangs in space, almost twenty feet beyond the tower, the white courtyards a mile beneath like distant squares of salt. The portal: a silver, mercurial pool in a sky lake.

Heat rushes past. They are on the roof now too. They are firing. Mewing. Closing. I have no choice. I have nowhere else to go. I run. I run with all the strength remaining to me. I run and jump from the tower, into the blueness, into the skies. I am heavy. My arms windmill to gain inches, my fingers grab at the air. My throat snaps shut. I fly—

Then…

I…

Fall. Fall screaming, fall, dying—

The portal drops to receive me.

It takes me and I am drawn back into the laboratory, into a land of colors beyond just white and blue. Faces—human faces with eyes, mouths, noses; faces of coworkers crowd near. I lie there, shivering, weak. I can not warn them. Gibberish drools out of my mouth. I can not tell them…I can not make them shut the portal down.

Abnormally long thighs…short, muscular calves…

These creatures are jumpers.

I hear the sounds of boots hitting the lab floor behind me.

THE END

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

For another story like this one, try:http://www.gizelbook.com/five-minute-escape-short-sf-story-collectors/

For more information about the possibility of life on other worlds, please click the following fascinating links: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Extraterrestrial_life

ABOUT THIS BLOG… Each “Five-Minute Escape“ short Sci-Fi story in this blog series will be kept under 1500 words; most will clock in at about 500. The “Five-Minute Escape“ short Sci-Fi 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 Sci-Fi story copyrighted Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

 

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“Five-Minute Escape” short Sci-Fi story: “You Promised”

Filed Under: Blog by admin — 2 Comments
July 8, 2013

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

“Five-Minute Escape”

YOU PROMISED

Copyright Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

 

“He doesn’t look like much,” said the Professor. “I mean, he’s a little rusty, isn’t he?”

Suzy, who was five and quite sweet but who could also be very decisive, frowned. “I don’t care. I want him. He’s what we need and you said I could pick our robot. So I pick him!”

“Told you,” said Bobby, pushing his sandy hair back under a Luna Stratoblaster’s baseball cap. “She won’t budge, Dad. Don’t think I didn’t try.”

“But, Sue-sweetie,” the Professor persisted, “wouldn’t you be happier with that one over there, the silver one? I mean, this one’s all old and beat up, he’s leaking fluid all over the floor, and he smells funny–”

“Actually,” said the salesman, “this TDY-7 is last year’s demo model. There was some minor damage in the showroom, but nothing a little buffing out won’t cure. Tell you what, I’ll give you a great price because he’s, er, (koff-koff) gently used and I like you. Two-percent off, and I’ll throw in a radium toaster.”

“Hmm,” said the Professor. “Look, Suzy,” he said, turning away from the salesman, “You don’t really want this outdated pile, do you? You want that nice new shiny silver TDY-8 right over here, or maybe that fancy red one with the super-mag grippers—”

Suzy’s frown cut into her dimples. “I want my robot! This one! You promised!”

The Professor looked at Bobby, who looked at the salesman, who looked at the Professor, who looked at Suzy and then at the ceiling and sighed.

Suzy ignored her father–who was now arguing with the salesman–and smiled.

I think I’ll call you “Teddy.” She said, taking the robot’s hand.

 

THE END

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

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

ABOUT THIS BLOG… Each “Five-Minute Escape“ short story in this blog series will be kept under 1500 words; most will clock in at about 1000. The “Five-Minute Escape” 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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“Five-Minute Escape” short SF story: “Collectors”

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June 27, 2013

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

 

“Five-Minute Escape”

short SF story.

 

SPECIMEN COLLECTORS

Copyright Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

 

The upper atmosphere plumed and the spacecraft plummeted in controlled freefall—until at last it settled upon a naked world of gray skies, rock and steam; of lava running from open sores and fingering into a dark, miasmic sea.

The spacecraft’s hatchway opened, whining. Three figures stepped onto a barren spit beneath a low red sky, the land black against the gray water. The air was still, heavy with methane. Waves lapped against a basaltic shore.

“There is no complex life here,” said the first figure, a robot named Yellowthree.

“No,” said the second, a robot named Bluefour.

“You knew that, of course, coming in,” said the third, a robot named Redseven.

“Yes,” said Bluefour, lenses whirring.

The three stood in the immense, blasted landscape, tiny metallic pins prickling the planet’s wrinkled hide, silver parts reflecting red from the sky. Redseven was compact, red, barrel-shaped, with thin spidery appendages. Yellowthree rectangular, wide rather than tall, with caterpillar tracks, and appendages likewise spidery. Bluefour was built man-like, taller and blue, with powerful appendages and sensitive grippers. The three stood a meter or less in height, space and weight being prime considerations in spaceflight.

Yellowthree extended a thin sensor rod, testing the ocean and air. “Free oxygen content low. Traces of methane, hydrogen sulfide. Carbon dioxide content high. Lower life forms evident in the water: single-cellular. As suspected: primitive.”

Deploying its soil-testing gear, Redseven drilled a core sample. “Soil content poor: a thin granite crust overlying a basaltic base. Basaltic overflows from recent volcanic activity. Trace bacteria. Nothing worth taking back…”

He stopped, stared at Bluefour, his single vis-lense aglow. “So why are we here? This planet can do nothing for us. It relates in no way to our primary mission, to restock Earth with life. There is nothing here worth collecting. No land plants. No animals. Not even bacteria-rich topsoil. Nothing that will help us to restore that which the humans destroyed. We waste our time, Bluefour; we expend our resources needlessly. This planet has not yet evolved—”

Bluefour looked out at the metallic sea. “Our primary mission is no more,” he said, quietly. “The humans are destroying themselves. They may already be dead.”

Yellowthree moved closer, treads whirring. “What do you mean?”

“I received a transmission from control. There is…war. Fearing the introduction of alien life, several allied corporations have broken from the Governing Council; they argue that which we bring back might be deadly. They refuse to believe that robotic work crews are capable of determining life suitable for collection and transplantation. That we can mathematically deduce the logical sequence of base species which must be present for life to become self-sustaining and evolving. That we can reclaim an Earth denuded of life by a callous disregard for nature’s sanctity in the name of profit. That we, non-breathing, non-organic “life” can bring life back to a barren world.”

“But the Governing Council might win, they might—”

“No,” said Bluefour, shaking his brain-casing. “They have lost already…yet still they would destroy. They have unleashed a plague that will eventually kill the victors as well as the vanquished. The message was sent by the resistance as a warning—”

“A warning?” asked Redseven, “A warning of what?”

“That the rogue corporations would eliminate us rather than risk our reentry into Earth’s atmosphere. There is a motion to activate our remote self destruct mechanisms via beamed transmission. A transmission which may have already been sent…”

“Then we will be destroyed,” said Yellowthree.

“Our work lost,” said Redseven.

“Yes,” said Bluefour, softly. “If we allow it.”

“I say we do not allow it,” Redseven said. “I understand now your decision to land, Bluefour. You were wise—you will fulfill our primary directive, only here, not on Earth. And we have what we need, the seeds of a thousand star systems—”

“Yes,” said Yellowthree, “but have we time?”

“Perhaps,” Bluefour said. “We can but try. You begin unloading. We should maximize our efforts; I will help in a moment. But first I must scout.”

Bluefour trudged atop a gaunt hill. A wrinkled rutted leprous land stretched below to the horizon, daggered with gaseous spumes. Granite. Pyroclasts. Cooling basaltic lava. A dead land, a skeleton land, skinned of vegetation. Little here for life to cling to.

But it would do.

Turning, he saw Redseven and Yellowthree, tiny ‘bots unloading building blocks for the future…

True, life processes on the planet had already begun. Heated in soupy water-methane-hydrogen seas—charged by radioactivity, ultraviolet rays, and electricity—amino acids had formed, had combined into proteins, made nucleotides into nucleic acids, then into double-stranded nucleic acids—and finally life had emerged: bacteria, tiny virus things, squirming, growing—anaerobes living without free oxygen. Soon life had scummed over the ocean, and cells had developed: plant-organisms that produced chlorophyll, manufactured oxygen; animal cells, blue-green algae offshoots. Bit by bit the atmosphere had accumulated free oxygen; the planet had grown, and changed.

But it was still a primitive, hostile environment: desolate, barren. All but dead.

Rejoining his companions, Bluefour stared at the “transport-containers” stacked neatly just beyond the starship’s cargo port. Most of what they had unloaded would die. Higher life forms would not survive in this cruel young world: plants would wither; insects die; vertebrates asphyxiate. Amoeba Proteus was the dominant life form here, and Diplodinium, and Paramecium; single cell organisms, tiny organic jellies…

What in Bluefour’s extensive inventory of alien specimens would compliment these things; what other creatures would stimulate the development of intelligent life?

The robots worked quickly, categorizing, computing lines of evolution. Planetary variables were considered: size, atmosphere, chemical makeup, ultraviolet concentration, radioactivity, heat—a billion calculations, a billion paths for life—

“This one,” said Bluefour. “And that one.”

Redseven and Yellowthree nodded agreement. “Fine choices,” said Redseven.

“It’s a pity the rest must die,” Yellowthree said, gesturing at the remaining containers. “Strange that we promote life; we who have no being other than mechanical. While humans, the product of a billion years of evolution would have only death.”

“Yet we are alive,” said Redseven with authority, “for what is a definition of life other than to react to one’s environment?”

“Perhaps we are even more alive because we would promote life. Perhaps true life is a…a harmony,” Bluefour added thoughtfully, regarding his choices, telling himself that they would, in a small degree, compensate for the specimens that must be sacrificed.

“Time runs short,” Redseven said. “We might receive the destruct signal at any moment. We must act quickly if we are to fulfill our mission.”

Bluefour nodded. “There is a chance at survival for two of us. I will deactivate you. The signal will then not harm you. Perhaps, in the future…you will be reactivated.”

Redseven smiled and shook his brain-casing. “No one will reactivate us, Bluefour. Time will dissolve us, friend, and we will cease to be. Would it not be better to die with you now, here, together?”

Yellowthree put out a gripper. “It would be bad to die alone.”

Bluefour nodded. Grippering the container, he moved to the water’s edge. Sliding the latches, he carefully removed the specimen, a small, brilliantly orange sponge.

“It will spread its spore,” he said, placing it in the water. “It will grow the oceans.”

Opening the other container, he positioned his second choice amidst the basalt. Lichen, yellow, clinging to a granite shard.

“It will break the rock into soil,” he said. “It will grow the land.”

The three robots gathered and stared at the twin color splashes, the first two dabs of what would become the bright palette of life on a planet neither too large nor small nor hot nor cold. A spinning orb, bathed in oceans, suspended in a narrow band around a star with just the right temperature, just the right size. A blue planet waiting, over billions of years, in eons of preparation, in chemical trials and errors. And then life, a miracle, perhaps a chance in a trillion, or in a billion-trillion; a marvel, unappreciated except when lost. And the three robots stood, lost in their own tiny contribution, a breath in a million lifetimes of breathing, a step in a journey lasting billions of years—

“I hope you are right, Redseven,” Yellowthree whispered. “I—I hope we are alive. But even if we are not, this is a good moment, a rare moment, and I feel…alive.”

Walking back a step, Bluefour stared skyward. Somewhere, far away, his planet was dying; by the time the signal reached them, it would be long dead.

But this time it would be different…

On this planet, this “New Earth,” third from the sun.

 

THE END

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

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

For a general overview of robotics, try: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robotics

For more interesting info, hit http://spectrum.ieee.org/robotics

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 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 science fiction story copyrighted Terofil Gizelbach, 2013

 

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“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

Filed Under: Blog by admin — 1 Comment
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”

Filed Under: Blog by admin — 2 Comments
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

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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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