harryhero

Harry Hero is a collaborative family writing project. He began as typing practice for author #6 in the mid-seventies. Authors M, 1, 4, 5, 7, spontaneously and sarcastically contributed until Harry took on a life and momentum of his own. He was reborn as a Christmas project in the early nineties and again as a web project in the new millennium. Once more Harry has risen from near tragic and certain literary deaths to live again as blog practice. Bulwer-Lytton judges take note.

About Me

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It seems I have suffered and survived a few insults and injuries to my cranium, thus my memory does not lend itself to one seamless life I could call my own. Instead, my life seems to be one dim episode after another documented by a random and rather odd conglomeration of assorted biographers who, for some bizarre reason, seem compelled to document my trials as if I were a remarkable hero. Heroism can take many forms. Perhaps it is finding fresh strawberries in November for the Manhattan socialite's crepes as she breaks her fast. Perhaps it is found in a multitude of skills, lucky breaks and death defying feats. It may be true that piloting my faithful rig, Betsy, through the Canadian Rockies is not for the weak of spirit, mind or body; I claim no special talents other than devoted love and endless hope. Love of a good truck, a good cup coffee and a good adventure. Hope of self-actualization and...Sophie? If you desire a chronological –not necessarily logical- plotline begin reading at the January 26 2006 post - The Not So Constant Gardener - and follow subsequent postings to present day.

Blog Archive

Monday, January 30, 2006

The Game was Afoot. circa 199...

A gentle zephyr ruffled Harry’s still luxuriant curly locks as he ambled up the walk to the back door, sat on the step and tugged off his rubber boots. Down the valley he could see the modest pinnacle of the Luxor. “A naïve domestic bungalow”, punned Harry, “but I am amused by its presumptuousness.”



He stepped through the plate diamond French windows and frowned. The HarryFax was whirring. The idyll was shattered. Reality intruded.
Then as always, Harry brightened. His pulse quickened, and he felt the rush from his artificially augmented adrenals. The game was a foot.

For as lowly and sordid the life of a hero, the life of an ex-hero is stagnant and stupefying. Humming a bar from Don’t Fence Me In, Harry strode to the HarryFax, and tore off the missive. It read:
Maybe baby I feel blue
Maybe, baby I need you
Maybe, baby you’ll come to
Sum Dey


Zounds! Clearly a call for help, from one of the forty who had accompanied Harry on his Voyage into the Cave of Convenience. (Harry’s code name had been All Baby)

So Dr.Maybe was on the loose! The notorious Nabob of Nasty had almost neutered his nemesis in a nook in Numtijuh in November.

“Asphyxiation?”, wondered Harry, “Or Cyanide? What is the precise shade of blue?’

But that detail could be cleared up when Harry made the rendezvous. Grabbing his cape, he sped out the front door, leapt through the dangling passenger door of his trusty Lada, fired the remaining two cylinders to life, and clattered off to the seedy restaurant area of Vegas.

Harry still wondered about Vegas. He was sure it was a mix-up. His mind wandered back to that last meeting with the Tri-Lateral Commission….

“Harry “, they pontificated, “we hear you are retiring now that the world is safe. What would you like as a reward?”

“As a symbol of my new life,” replied Harry, “I am renouncing the consumption of meat. I am becoming a vegan.”

“Fine”, replied the Commission, “your wish is our command.”

…there was a confusing week spent orbiting the star of Vega in a used space capsule. Harry was more than a little annoyed when he finally got home. He assumed the house on the outskirts of Las Vegas was the Commission’s way of making amends, and fulfilling Harry’s desire. Harry could appreciate the economy of thought.

to be continued...
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