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

Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Harry Makes Contact


Las Vegas loomed, looking a lot like Lethbridge. Harry slowed the leaping Lada and urged it to the off ramp leading to the seedy restaurant district. Soon he reined it to a halt before the Sum Dey Café (Peking/Lebonese our Specialty) “A bad Café”, recalled Harry. He resolved not to order a salad. He sidled through the cracked glass (not diamond) door and slid into a booth.

“Irish coffee, keeps you alert but erratic”, said the waitress. An ash dropped off her cigarette into Harry’s frothy cup. “That’ll curl the hair on your toes.” She said. Harry blanched. How did she know about the hair on his toes? Could she be the operative he was expecting?

“Valentines are burgundy” he ventured.

“Only when they come from me” she replied, and the contact was made.

To be continued......
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