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

My photo
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, March 03, 2006

And now for a brief interlude...

With thanks to, and in memory of, the genius of B. Kliban.
For more Cats click on title above for link to eatmousies.














HARRY IN THE LAND OF CAT STATIONARY

Harry usually felt that he could cope with the situation, but this was a different kettle of fish. Cats plagued very existence. And now, his personal stationary was infested. However, he bravely silenced the alarm clock and reached down from the bed, groping for his red high-tops. He encountered only a fuzzy heap of shreddings. A question mark formed in his brain as he rolled over and looked down.
Posted by at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)