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

Trepan or not trepan...

“Well, my dear, I appreciate your enthusiastic cooperation, but I do not believe this is the appropriate location for such a procedure. If you could enlist the help of our most congenial friends, perhaps we could transport him to the institute for safekeeping.”

“Of course, Doctor”, agreed the chilling voice.

The soft squeak of rubber soles faded into silence. Harry fought a losing battle with the sandman. His was a fitful repose, wrought with wailing sirens, slamming doors and muffled voices. He felt his limp carcass fly through the air, land with a careless thud and settle into a bumpy ride. The fast paced slap of flat feet echoed rhythmically with the rapid rattle of rubber gurney wheels rotating over rug. He became vaguely aware that he was on a stretcher careening through seemingly endless hallways. The stench of chlorine bleach, formaldehyde and sewage flowed around him in nauseating waves. Flashes of bright light punctured the gritty mucous slits of his eyelids and stabbed at his retina. “Unguhh”, he moaned reflexively, as his massive mitts flew up to protect his baby blues from the blinding pain.

Unghn” , he whimpered anew, as his arms came to an abrupt halt in mid-reflex. Cold claws clamped around his wrists and pressed them into his heaving abdomen.

“1…2…3!”, counted a voice. His body flew again and then crashed into Siberian sheets.

“Restrain him!”, ordered the oddly opaque, yet somewhat familiar voice. In a flash the frigid fingers secured canvas backed leather straps around Harry’s hairy wrists and a swift bilateral jerk splayed his arms outward where they were neatly secured to the steel bedrails.
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