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

Friday, February 03, 2006

And it continues.....

When he reopened his eyes, he felt immobile. He looked down at his toes. They seemed to be in a sandy beach, with occasional cocoanut palms swaying in the offshore breeze. Harry looked out over the waves, and saw a large approaching cloud bank. He looked upward, and saw gulls wheeling overhead.
As he wondered at his altered state, the typhoon struck, and he grimaced as his palm hairs were uprooted. The pain was too much, he yelped and faded out again.

*****

When his eyes opened for the third time, Harry was wheeling over the island, watching as the heavy winds shredded the shoreline. He stretched his wings, and soared on the fringes of the onslaught. Soon the storm passed, leaving havoc in its wake. Darkness fell again, as quickly as a tropical sunset after the rain. Strangely though, Harry kept some sense of consciousness, and perched on an uprooted palm, listening to the white noise of the surf. When dawn came, he flapped off with his brethren, towards the glowing orb in the eastern sky.
.


*****


But suddenly he was wrenched from his idyll by a familiar loathed voice. “He is prepped, Doctor. Would you like me to pay our flat footed friend or assist in the trepanning?”

To be continued….
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