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 17, 2006

Harry loses control


Huddled in a fetal ball on Betsy’s floorboards, hurling and hurdling, Harry wondered if this was it. He’d been here before. He could feel the tape rewind through his spinning brain and he closed his eyes against the inevitable life flashing before them.

“I know!” he screamed, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. How could he? “Show me something else this time”, he prayed, as the play button pressed down somewhere in the wrinkled wounded cortex of our damaged hero. Tears squeezed past his clenched lids, flew across the careening cab, orbited, and finally splattered against the frosty windshield simultaneously melting and freezing into crystallized confirmation of his pain. Then, they came, swimming up through the red-black scrunch of his eyelids, the mottled memories, inconsistent images, and painful pictures of Harry’s realm. Betsy sped onward



To be continued…
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1 comment:

harry said...

Thank you for your comment. I like your photo. Are you going to do more?

11:09 p.m.

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