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.

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Wednesday, April 05, 2006

Harry off the Couch. (new/old material! - flashback continues)


The doctor said nothing. Harry continued his story. Then, while he calmly recalled a tale of steaming engine rooms, tall dark strangers with bad accents, teak decks and tight ropes he jerked convulsively, screamed and thrashed madly at his face. Memories of being bound, gagged and left as fodder for the gulls came screeching into his trembling ego. The doctor was startled from his sleep as Harry flailed and crashed noisily from the couch, finally collapsing into a writhing, heaving, hysterical, and very empty blob. He sobbed cathartically. After the tears had dried on his blotched face, much as the salty sea spray had dried on his parched lips decades earlier, Harry spoke.

“I remember now,” he stammered. “The captain left me on the deck, t…t…t…tethered,…tied. There were b…b…birds, g…g…gulls mostly, everywhere, the noise, the stench, it w…was unbearable. The s…s…sun was bl…blinding…and waves were p…pounding against the boat. The spray was splashing over me, at f…first, it was s…s….soothing, and it fr…frightened the gulls. But they’d come back, again and again and again, gouging and scraaa….ahh…aatching at my eyes and nose and toes and everywhere…anywhere and the salty spray would dry on the scratches and gouges and in the cracks in my l…lips and…it drove me m…mad with th…thirst and pain. I must have p…passed out because s…suddenly it was twilight and c…cold and somehow a rope was frayed. It must have been from their constant pecking…endless pecking…pecking… pecking…pecking!”



Harry buried his face in his hands and pounded the floor with his forehead. The doctor wondered if his hand-woven imported Turkish carpet would withstand the abuse, decided it would, and cleared his throat.

“Hmmm”, he said, picking at the small hangnail on his left thumb then rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Harry slithered back onto the couch and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He gulped his way through a deep breath and stuttered as it seeped out of him. “I…It was pretty bad.”

“Let’s go with that,” said the doctor. “Why do you feel it felt bad?”

To be continued…
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