Tuesday’s Tale, 10/17/2017.


Alright, a slight story switch up, because it’s horror time. For those of you following this blog who don’t know, I’m a horror fanatic, but I’m also bad at writing it. So every year around this time I like to flex that muscle and get better. So, the previous story is on hold, and today we go a bit cliche.

He slammed the door and looked around quickly. “The chair!”

She didn’t move, instead stared at the chair blankly.

“Cheryl, the chair! Get me the chair!”

She dragged the chair over the floor noisily, the bat in her other hand held close to her chest.

He took the chair from her as soon as it was in range and propped it under the door. Just in time, as the first loud batterings sounded against it. He knew it wouldn’t hold long, but with luck, he and Cheryl wouldn’t need long.

“Come on!” He grabbed her hand.

Together they went up, up the stairs and down the hall. There was no need to try for silence, instead, they needed speed.

The master bedroom of the old house had a more sturdy door than the one they just left, and it had a lock too, which was a plus.

And that’s it for this week, see you next week with more of this. Until then, have a good week!


Tuesday’s Tale, 10/10/17.


Alright, I’m here, five minutes on the clock and away we go.

There were no more survivors left in the tunnel; not even at the last stop. He expected as much.

He climbed over people on his way out; most facing either outside or in, going to or away from a certain kind of death.

The city was on fire; everything from skyscrapers to small corner shops were ablaze or smoking. The fires would burn themselves out, but it would be far too late to salvage much of value – if anyone would be left to run salvage operations.

There were boats and ships on the water, many of those were smoking as well, but few were burning.

The docks were a block from the station. They were made of wood, like many of the ships were; he would need to hurry.

And that’s as good as I can do this week, unfortunately. Time elapsed is five minutes even. See you next week!

Tuesday’s Tale, 10/3/2017.


I’m here! Without further ado, five minutes on the clock, and away we go:

In the end, only the guy with the raider’s cap made it to the next station; he fell just short, mouthing curses he had no breath to utter, reaching for Smith. Somewhere along the line, he had dropped the dead child, Smith couldn’t say where. The others with him hadn’t made it five hundred feet when the gas hit – he had been obstinate.

Smith said a prayer for them all but kept moving.

The next tremor knocked him forward; desperately he steadied his mask as he sprawled. With a roar, the tunnel collapsed behind him.

Dust and debris also filtered down from the escalators leading to the outside world.

His side stitched as he rose, but Smith ignored it. He had to hurry, the ash was here. but which way? The tunnel behind him had collapsed; if the tunnel in front had collapsed as well, he would be trapped and would have to double back. On the other hand, with the ash, fires, lightning, and other dangers sure to be lurking ground side, he would be slowed.

No, the tunnel was the correct choice; it was designed to handle the quakes possible from here. The earlier tunnel collapse had to be a fluke. Smith pulled his flashlight from his bag in case the emergency lights failed, and moved on.

And that’s it! total time is five minutes even, and have a great week!

Tuesday’s Tale, 9/26/2017.


Okay, I fell off the wagon again, but to be fair my computer blew up; whatever, I’m here now. Five minutes on the clock and away we go.

“No time!” Was the only valid reply; he started to jog again. He would be sprinting, except for the dark and the third rail. He did not want to be here when the gas caught up to the ash.

The small group followed him, well back. That was good. They might not enjoy how they were destined to die.

It started a mile down the track; first, they started coughing, little polite coughs which broke into loud wet racking coughs.

The man in the Raiders cap kept them moving. “Come on, breathe through your shirts, or wrap something around your nose and mouth. We gotta keep going.”

They knew now, why he had his mask.

The first one to drop was a child, a girl that couldn’t be older than 10. Raider cap wasted no time in scooping her up and continuing on. The group made it another ten steps before the girl’s mother dropped, and then a man.

Smith didn’t stop. There was no point.

And there we go. Time elapsed is four minutes fifty-three seconds. See you next week, provided nothing else happens.

Tuesday’s Tale, 9/12/2017.


It’s happening! I’m posting two weeks in a row! It’s a miracle!

Enough of that; five minutes on the clock, and away we go.

His hand crept to his service pistol; an old Beretta, it had been his from his days in the army and rose with him through the ranks. He was glad he’d kept it, now, and glad he’d went to the range on a few days off.

“What are you doing? Stop following me.”

The others milled, wasting precious seconds. he turned to leave, keeping one eye their way in case of attack. There was no time to waste on the dead; he’d done everything he could.

They started again, almost as one, but this time one of the younger men outpaced the others by a few steps – not enough to get close enough to be a threat, but close enough to be heard. He was perhaps twenty-five, dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers with an Oakland Raiders cap jammed firmly over his thick brown hair.

“Everyone else fought to get above ground, away from the tremors and possible collapse. You fought to go down; why?”

“Ash. There’s no time for this; try to stop me, and I’ll shoot you.”

He felt some regret saying those words, looking to the earnest young man, watching him fall back with his hands up, clearly afraid.

“Hey man, it’s cool, I won’t try anything. But what do you mean, ash? You know what’s going on?”

…and just like that, five minutes even. Sometimes I hate my time limit; I was just starting to get to the good part!

Oh well, there is always next week. See you then!

Tuesday’s Tale, 9/5/17.


I know, I missed a week. Sorry about that, I know it’s becoming a habit. I’ll try to break it. But for now, five minutes on the clock and a disaster to write, so away we go!

He wasn’t proud of how he’d had to knock down or possibly even kill people to fight his way down the stairs, but without a mask of their own they were dead anyway, and he couldn’t let their current live and upright state kill him too.

The ones that recognized his pack and mask for what it was and tried to grab it away he showed no mercy to; desperation lent him the strength to fight them off. Once to the bottom of the stairs he vaulted off to the side and ran full tilt into the pitch black tunnel.

He was counting on all the trains being stopped of course; if even one were still going in this tunnel, for any reason, he was dead. But with the power cut due to massive seismic activity, it wasn’t likely.

Some people were following him; people from the subway itself or people who had followed him outside? Either way, there were around a dozen, and he couldn’t risk it; he whirled to face them.

Alright, this week is in the can; total time is five minutes even. See you next time!

Tuesday’s Tale, 7/11/2017.


Alright, I’ve been missing some time. I’ve no excuse for it, and I apologize. But I’m back now and ready to go. So, five minutes on the clock and a new tale to tell:

He abandoned all pretense of control and dignity, hurrying down the hall at the best run his aged legs could offer him.

He drew stares of course, but they were pointless now; meaningless. He paid them as little mind as he did the secretary who was even now rising from her seat with a half-hearted “Mr. Jones, you can’t go in there, he’s in a meeting! Mr. Jones!”

He was indeed in a meeting, with a young man who still had the glow of idealism on his cheeks. For a murderous moment, Mr. Jones envied that young man.

He shut the door as the two fell silent; then closed the distance remaining to the old man who had risen straight-backed from his large chair, and bent to whisper in one gray swaddled ear.

Mr. Jones took some satisfaction in the way his words drained the blood from the other man’s face.

Mr. Smith, however, was made of stern stuff. “Jenkins, leave us.”

And there you have it: five minutes and a paragraph. I’ll be along next week to add to it.