Harry comes to.

Harry came to suddenly, in one of those mind-jolting lunges of consciousness that had plagued him all of his life. He had no memory of where he had been, what he had done, even who he was. It was why, in one of his earlier lives (for it seemed to Harry that he had not one seamless life that he could call his own, but only one dim episode after another) he had had his name tattooed in large letters on his right palm. He always recognized those bold letters as his name, and after discovering them, he would seize on them and feel whole once more. “I am Harry Hero”, he thought and it was enough. Less clear to him was the inscription on his left palm: Maybe. He looked at that cryptic word now, and thought Maybe. Maybe Not, it seemed to make no difference either way.
















Harry looked around. He was standing beside a road. On either side of the road, crops were ripening in fields that stretched to a horizon made blurry by the heat of high summer.

The pavement was soft under the heels of his cowboy boots, and the only sound was the thick, fuzzy droning of the bees labouring under the weight of the pollen stacked up on the harry legs.

“Take it easy little fellers,” Harry said, for he was suddenly lonely there by the side of the road, and the bees were the closest things to him on the evolutionary scale that he could see in all that hot, green landscape.

He looked to the right, had he been going that way? Maybe. Maybe Not, Harry sighed. Sometimes he thought he was being melodramatic. He started walking to the left, to the east, to the sinister side to the maybe side.

To be continued...