Tag Archive: Adventure Fiction

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

“Five-Minute Escape”

short Sci-Fi story.



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, 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—



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.



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


1956 Plymouth Belvedere

Picture courtesy Chrysler Corporation and Allpar.Com

“Five-Minute Escape”

short adventure story.



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.”


“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.




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

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.



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.




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


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

“Five-Minute Escape” short adventure story.


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.”




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.


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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