The Daring Exploits of Harry Smith,

Harry Smith looked at the bridge in front of him, swaying to and fro in the gusty breeze. He had traveled for three days straight and now this bridge was the only obstacle with him being reunited with his truest of loves- Hilda Davenport. He had met Hilda three months ago upon an ivory expedition, her father Colonel Reginald Davenport had not approved of Harry. In fact the Colonel would only consent on Harry marrying his youngest and fairest daughter if he had completed one task of bravery. He needed to march alone into the Winkepida jungle and return with the Wanti-Wenti necklace of the Ippi Yippi giant Pygmy tribe. The Ippi Yippi tribe’s folk were the tallest pygmy’s ever discovered, some being as tall as six and a half feet. The very bravest of the Ippi Yippi warriors, Eric, wore the aforementioned prized necklace about his neck. The only way that anyone could take it away him was by beating him in the scariest challenge known to all mankind. A ritual so disgusting, so incredible bloody and hideous, a test so vile and putrid that the authorities that be have decreed in their ultimate- albeit somewhat silly wisdom -that I do not elaborate any further. Just take my word for it is far ghastlier, terrifying and disgusting than anything your imagination could possibly conjure…

As you are a reader of great perception you have no doubt cottoned on, that after several days of marching through the forest, he made it to the infamous Ippi Yippi tribe. Then he found Eric, who was as round as he was tall, and he was bloody well tall…. The challenge was made, and as the whole village gathered about to watch and cheer the aforementioned unmentionable ritual proceeded…Much to the amazement and disappointment of the tribe, Harry Smith, the definite under dog, who had odds of nearly 1,000-to 1 by an amazing bout of sleight of hand brought about one of the most uncanny and unlikely victories ever.

As the tribe all rolled about on their backs in shock, and the bookkeeper stabbed him self in his own heart, (Two rather daft, but lucky, tribe members had bet on Harry by complete accident.)Harry Smith grabbed the necklace and began his long and perilous journey back to Hilda.

When he reached the bridge his manly heart beat fast with excitement. “Wait to the Colonel sees this Necklace!” he thought out loud… “Soon I will wed my Hilda…” He begun across the bridge in high spirits…He wore the necklace proudly about his neck. He almost skipped along it his mood was so joyous…As he was half way across he heard his beloved Hilda, singing (if that is the appropriate term for it) their song… Barry Manilow’s charming evergreen classic I write the songs… Hilda watched on as Harry carefully made his way across the bridge…He was almost three quarters across, when it happened, the necklace came undone and fell, almost as if in some kind of cosmic slow motion, to the side of the bridge, and quite naturally in the classic fantastic storytelling fashion, looped it self miraculously about a broken post which was sticking out from the rope ladder. Harry realized, beyond a shadow of doubt that he had to retrieve it, as it was his only proof that he had completed the near impossible mission…He carefully knelt down …Then lay on his stomach…And then…Well, to tell you the honest truth, no-one is quite sure what happened Next. But, apparently a rather perilously strong sudden gust of wind unexpectedly gusted up…This caused the bridge to precariously rock from side to side, and as Harry watched on in horror he saw the necklace slipping menacingly close to the end of the post…Then as Hilda looked on, singing I write the songs even louder, Harry let go of his grip hold and reached his now shaking fingers to the necklace, and grasped it…

Just as he thought he once more had achieved victory, there was a second, even more powerful, gust of wind, and Harry flailed off the bridge, and as Hilda continued to watch on mortified, he crashed and actually bounced to a rather horrid, bloody and I suspect rather painful death upon the jagged rocks several hundred feet below…

Sad I know. But not every story has a happy ending I am afraid…That’s just life.

However, rumor has it that a few months later the lovely Hilda fell for a rather dashing and incredibly handsome English writer who she fell madly in love with after reading one of his short stories.

P.S. Gifford

P.S. Gifford is a published horror author of great talent. He started submitting stories around 2005. His short stories are by far some of the best and most entertaining that I have read. Around that time he was invited to write columns which are titled "Paperback Writer."

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.


Enjoyed this? Please spread the word :)