It was 1918. Grandpa loved his 9 grandchildren, but the Flu was deadly, so whenever a grandchild approached, he held up his hand, and shouted, “Hey!”
His grandkids still loved him, but they never hugged.
They started calling him “Heypappy”, and that’s how it was for his remaining 25 years.
Harry Demarest wrote this true story about his great grandfather, Franklin Conklin.
I looked into her eyes.
I held her hand.
I should have said, “I love you.”
Should have said, “Thank you for the good times.”
But I was angry still,
after all those years.
I looked into her eyes.
I dropped her hand.
and then I died.
Harry Demarest has written 30 50-word stories that have been published, and another dozen or so that were not good enough. Two of his longer stories have been published.
When I was young, I wished I could ride my bike around the block, coasting downhill all the way.
Since I got my degree in physics I know that’s impossible.
I now wish that the integral of the gradient of the gravitational potential around a closed loop could be negative.
Harry Demarest received a BA in physics from Reed College in 1969, and a PhD in planetary and space physics from UCLA in 1975.
He was used to the hallucinations that came with Lewy Body Dementia. He was no longer surprised when he saw bugs and animals crawling out of the walls.
So he wasn’t afraid when he saw a giant python slithering down the hall toward him.
Not until it swallowed him whole.
Harry Demarest hopes to publish his fiftieth 50-word story before he ends up in a memory care facility.
Big Gerald wanted to show Little Jerry that there were no monsters, so he locked his son in the basement.
An hour later, Gerald let Little Jerry out. “See? No monsters.”
“I’m sorry, Daddy, there is a monster. It’s very hungry!” Little Jerry sobbed. “I told it you were bigger.”
Harry Demarest wrote this story. The first draft was 1836 words.
Lieutenant Harold Demarest stands on the bridge, watching a kamikaze roar towards him.
Below, Gunner Frank McClelland fires the 40mm cannon and hits the suicide plane.
It veers downward, exploding into the ship.
Demarest is alive, a flimsy clipboard shielding his head. Below, Frank McClelland and seventeen others are dead.
Frank McClelland was awarded the Silver Star Posthumously. Harry
Demarest wrote this story about his father, Harold Demarest, who attended
many reunions with his shipmates until his death at age 96.
My friends weren’t impressed when I told them I was a writer.
Now that I have written this story, I tell them that I am the author of The New York Times Best Seller, Death by Embarrassment, and over twenty short works of fiction and nonfiction.
Now they are impressed.
Harry Demarest is the author of The New York Times Best Seller, Death by Embarrassment, and over twenty short works of fiction and nonfiction. He has a couple of dozen unpublished short works which he plans to submit someday.
I took Maggie Christmas shopping. We bought clothes for the little girl in our adopt-a-family and a Wonder Woman figure for Maggie.
At bedtime, I asked Maggie about her Wonder Woman toy.
“Please don’t be mad at me, Mommy. I snuck it in with the clothes for that little girl.”
This story was inspired by Meagan’s son Kaden.
Children shrieked as goblins, witches, and werewolves jumped out at them. Children screamed when they saw corpses and body parts oozing blood and gore.
It was the best haunted house ever, and the children remembered it for the rest of their lives—which, for some, was only a few seconds.
Harry Demarest Likes to write Halloween Stories. This is the first one to be published.
Aladdin rubbed the lamp and a Genie popped out.
“I want wealth, women, and immortality,” said Aladdin.
A caravan appeared, with camels laden with gold and silver, and thirty beautiful women.
The Genie smiled. “Now for the immortality.” He stuffed Aladdin into the lamp and rode off with the caravan.
Harry Demarest likes to write 50-word stories while he procrastinates finishing his novel.