Death of the Herkimer

There are many ways for a blog to die. Some have walked out into the frozen tundra, arms splayed, coatless, never to be seen again. Some die slowly of VD, some suddenly of heart attacks. Some bleed to death after being stabbed eighteen times in the side with a shiv made from dental floss and a ball-point pen. Some have a secret wife, a treasure chest, and a bad conscience, and burn, spectacularly and justly, in a mysterious fire. Some accidentally eat poison intended for rats. Some buy a box with a Dybbuk in it. Some drink a cup of molten gold. Some die of laughter after getting their donkey drunk, then watching it try to eat figs. Some just die of old age.

The Herkimer Review has died, but it won't say how. It would prefer that you think of its death in whatever way makes you most comfortable. Perhaps it's turned into a ray of light. Perhaps it's reincarnated into a new blog--a better blog. Perhaps it didn't really die at all, but is still with us, inside the hearts of those who will always remember it.

The Herkimer will never forget you. It would like to leave two things behind. First, its utmost thanks to those who have contributed, whose work will be enshrined and accessible on its electronic walls forevermore. Secondly, this video, which it thinks is pretty awesome, and which, like its death, it would like you to make of what you will.

Deepest thanks from beyond the grave, where glaciers break, and dogs sing daily.

Write with guts!
HERKIMER

The Herkimer Review is on Facebook!

The Herkimer Review is now wordsmithing like a champ on Facebook!


Check out the Herkimer on Facebook for superlatively current updates on sponsors, prizes, and submission deadlines!

EMOTICON!
HERKIMER

Submit now to be featured in our relaunch!

Hi from the Herkimer!

In case you haven't noticed, the Herkimer has been sleeping. Sleeping like a beast. Sleeping like a dragon. Sleeping like a herpes infection. And soon, it will wake up--and ravage springtime like a herd of bloodthirsty buttercups.

In the next few weeks, the Herkimer will be undergoing some changes and gathering some work to display in its heart-stopping, brain-shattering, soul-exploding, season-dominating relaunch--complete with prizes, giveaways, and general hubbubery.

We're looking for fiction, prose, poetry, and memoir under 1500 words to feature. We're also looking for writers who want to contribute to the Herkimer regularly. We strongly encourage submissions by unpublished student writers.

Romance novels and children's books dominate the literary market. We have nothing against that per se--but we are not about that shit up in here. We like it weird. We like it odd. We like it unheard of. We especially like stories about things traditionally perceived as dark, strange, bizarre and obscure. If you're writing a romance novel about a girl with decreased intellectual capacities falling in love with a poodle, we would love to read it. If your children's book is about a hundred and one ways to try not to die, then it might be appropriate for the Herkimer Review. If you've never sent work to a journal before because your work is too something--then you should send it here.

We're kind of goth. We're kind of gross. We're kind of awesome. And we kind of TOTALLY want to read what you've written.

Submit now at herkimersubmissions@hotmail.com. And check back often for relaunch updates.

Write with guts!
HERKIMER

Blocaphoner

[blow-CAH-funn-er]

-noun.

1.   a person who purposefully speaks loud enough to be heard by others who are wearing headphones.

2.   a musical instrument of the Victorian era that was played at parties during dull moments in order to arouse laughter among the guests.

Great Tufted Snorglitz

Great Tufted Snorglitz, n: a matted, woolly sheep-like creature specific to the Swiss Alps, possessing of two curly decorative horns and a large and musical schnozz. Not to be confused with the Lesser Tufted Snorglitz, a tropical goat.

Ex: "Jolly good, Buncombe! That's a Great Tufted Snorglitz you've felled! I bagged a Lesser Snorglitz when I was in Bermuder with Mandy last Easter. Time for tea?"

Onomatopoeia: Make up and define a funny-sounding word.

Hi from the Herkimer!

This week, make up and define a really funny-sounding word. It can mean anything at all, as long as it makes you snort with glee.

Write with guts!

Mentos and manatees,

HERKIMER

Gabriel

At eight, Gabriel was the type of boy who was constantly seeking to occupy small, dark spaces -- the nooks and crannies of the house, garage, backyard, and so on. And if no such nook existed to his satisfaction, he would build it, preferably high up in the trees. Perhaps it was a consequence of his upbringing. You see, eight years and six or seven months ago, when Gabriel's mother and father became aware that he was on the way, a decision was made. The older boys were much older and not open to sharing their rooms with a newborn. So, mom and dad kept Gabriel and his crib in their room until he was ready for his own space, and what was once the kitchen pantry became a mattress lined cubby. Of course, it was not designed as a kitchen pantry either; it was merely the space above the stairway going down and below the stairway going up. In fact, as built, this interstitial had no floor, but rather it had a forty-five degree plywood ramp, which was also the ceiling of the lower staircase. To convert it into a pantry, Gabriel's father had installed a floor that was three feet high, and accessed by a step ladder. To convert it into a bedroom, Gabriel's father lined the six- by four-foot floor with bedding foam. From the very beginning of his occupancy, Gabriel bounced all around. He was obviously very pleased to live in the cubby, and because of this his parents were pleasantly surprised and felt validated in their decision to place him there. They could not, however, foresee the ways in which it would shape his entire life.

Day's End

The threshold - an invisible barrier between the never-ending hum of the larger spaces under the pitched roof; beyond, a diffused calmness longed for as the shadows claim the places once dappled with sunlight and sound.

Feet sink into thick carpet, pleasingly cushioning weighted steps across the room. Antique lace curtains ripple as summer puffs tiny breaths of coolness scented by Moonflowers in through a trio of oak framed windows - the cascade of night voices rise and fall as if in unison with the gentle winds. A well-worn overstuffed chair sits beside the lacquered old sewing box that was her mother's, its contents neatly arranged by size and color. Filtered moonlight echoes back from the mirror over the decades old wooden bureau and illuminates the gilded frames which hold the smiling faces of her most beloved. Beyond, the simple bed adorned in hand quilted finery beckons repose.

London

There's a London phone booth sitting in the doorway. This is where she keeps her DVDs. And her reading lamp. Her reading lamp is from Peter Pan, but she never turns the light on because there are lights built into the ceiling. There are suitcases from the early 20th century filled with nothing. And candle shrines, sparkling bottles filled with lights. Magic wands and remote controls. 5 guitars that shine abalone. Percussion and piano. Her finest purchase is a cheeseboard that she uses for everything but cheese. These are the things my sister collects in her bedroom. These are the things that make her bedroom my favorite home away from home.

Beach Scene

A peach bedspread loomed in quilted ridges across a four-poster bedframe made of scrolled metal painted white. The headboard rolled in curlicues like a pale gothic mansegate, and the posts were twisted like barber poles. On the wall facing the bed there was a window, and over this was a luminous stained glass picture of a beach scene with a massive gilded frame. Rolling turquoise waves glowed obscenely, and in the upper left corner, a brilliant red sun squatted, top-wide and fat. Black seagulls crawled flylike across a pork-pale, iridescent sky. Through the whole thing you could see faintly the stubbled brown backyard, a rusted swingset, and the clouding top of a brackish arborvitae studded with crows.

Portrait of a Bedroom

Hi from the Herkimer!

Hard, grey cat turds festooned every corner. There was nothing on the scuffed white walls but a large poster of Boy George.

This week, describe a person by describing that person's bedroom.

Write with guts!

Filthy carpets, galley windows, and multiple cats,

HERKIMER

Ahhh, Shit!

"Oops," he said. And it was the last thing he said, although it was not the last thing that ran through his mind - that was "Fuck, this hurts.", as the blue bus slammed into him. His body burst like a blood balloon, a bloodblot on the windshield. His face scraped along the pavement, his left eye popped out of his skull and the last thing that eye saw was the face of a young child by the side of the road. She was holding an ice cream cone and had a cream mustache that had dripped into a white Fu Manchu. He assumed it was vanilla, but it could have been rocky road.

Nancy

Nancy was constantly terrified of death, but this didn’t stop her from dying when she did. As always, on an errand to which someone else was driving, she kept the muscles in her shoulders tense and imagined what prevention she would utter if each mishap she imagined should come near to actual occurrence: watch that drifter; hasn’t rained in a while; that man’s in a hurry; that biker’s got the jitters. She noticed every wobbly hubcap and sometimes checked the lights for synchronicity—she had heard that in New Orleans not even the stoplights were back to normal, and God knows, times were getting tough in every old hill and borough, and it was bound to happen sooner or later. She had looked out the window up at the clear blue day and relaxed her guard for an instant to think of the pineapple she had eaten earlier that week—it was a good pineapple, sweet and juicy without too much of that stuff which stuck like brittle cloth threads in your teeth—when a truck swung out of the left turn lane on the opposite side and, without quite as much sound as you would expect from such a thing, took the whole passenger side clean off, Nancy with it.

Flash Fiction: Obituary

She turned from locking the top deadbolt on the door and straightened her shoulders as she stepped into the hall, remembering her posture, and as she did so she walked smack-dab into an intruder who reached out and grabbed her neck and snapped it like an old wood bow.

Hi from the Herkimer!

This week, write a short piece about someone's death. Make it either a poem or under 300 words.
No suicides! (Unless they're accidental.)

Write with guts!

Ladder falls, fishing accidents, and unfortunate occurrences at dinner parties,

HERKIMER

Teenage Wasteland

We shoplifted. We did drugs. We got cornrows. We joined nudist colonies. We tied our skateboards to our best friend's car. We went on impromptu road trips. We conned grocery-store delivery men into selling us liquor. We broke into haunted houses. We wore ridiculous outfits. We got arrested. And what was that poster we had up on our bedroom wall?
This week on the Herkimer, write about your most cringe-worthy teenage memory.

The tweediest of professors, the most architectural of fashion editors, and the zen-est of Buddhist monks have recollections of their teenage years which cause them to cover their eyes and mutter in humiliation.

What's one of yours?

Write with guts!

HERKIMER

Snakes on a Brain

Even from the relative comfort of my bed on the second story of my house I could hear them. Had it been the wind, the rustling of the leaves would have been welcome, soothing. This was not that morning, though. No waiting for the breeze to waft in through the window and impart its freshness, no waking to the baking of skin energized by early rays of sun. Only urgency, only panic. Their scales rasped on the hardscaping below and on my eardrums as they came up the hill and into the side yard. They had given us the night to allow us to believe we were safe. They'd waited for morning and now they were here. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and reached the door in one motion.

Downstairs I found my sister. She didn't yet know about the hordes invading the space we'd played in for so many years, where our parents barbecued. I told her we had to leave, that the house wasn't safe any more, that we couldn't come back. I screamed at her that it had to be now, but I couldn't make her understand why. Then I saw, out of the corner of my eye, that it was too late. A snake coiled itself on the back of our reclining chair and had its gaze fixed steadily upon her. It lunged - it flew - at her and knocked her down to the floor. Instantly, the place my sister fell became a swarm of snakes that had already made it inside the house and had just been waiting for their chance. They piled on her until I could no longer see any patch of humanity between the bodies of the growing, writhing mass of snakes.

I turned and ran for the front door. All of my energy flowed down and out of my feet, into the floor, displaced by despair as I realized I was up against flying snakes. Somehow I made it to my car. I drove until my exhaustion convinced me I'd put enough distance between myself and the snakes. I checked into a hotel so I could rest, regroup, and figure out what to do. I knew I wasn't safe. I was being chased, hunted, and I would never be able to stop running. I'd make my plan in the morning.

I slipped my key card into the door. I didn't even have to enter the room to see that the floor was a moving, tangled carpet of snakes, eager to drown me among them and dissolve me. I slammed the door closed and ran back down the hall. I felt helpless. I couldn't win my survival alone. I needed someone. The only person I found was the hotel's concierge. I told him, breathlessly, about the dissatisfactory state of my accommodations. He had no trouble believing me that my room was suffering from a snake infestation. He was conciliatory, certainly, but he felt that there was really nothing to worry about. No cause for alarm. He would take me to my room himself and remedy the problem himself, handily, closing the issue. I begged him, I pleaded with him, but I couldn't make him understand. I told him about my sister and what had happened to her. As I tagged along behind him down the hall he didn't turn his head my way or say a word. He strode, chin up, to what I knew would be his doom.

That was it, then, I thought. There was nothing else for it. The world was insane and would never comprehend the threat posed by flying snakes. I, alone, saw. I left the hotel and drove on down the road.

Grief took me, then frustration, and finally resignation. One faint glimmer of hope pushed its way through the cracks of my skull, though, and took root. It became an idea, and soon hardened into an imperative. I fled before the burden at my back at first, yes, but soon I was leading them. Unbeknownst to the snakes, I was luring them like the pied piper to the place where the great battle for the fate of the world would be waged, and God willing, the snakes would be vanquished. To rid the planet of this scourge, I raced for the land of the flying mongooses.

The Polecat

It started off being the usual 'friends getting together' type of thing - ten or so people sitting in a casual circle chatting in groups of two and three. Most slouched in old metal folding chairs similar to what you'd find at a garage sale for half a buck, while a few claimed the two upholstered pieces shoved into the far corners. Under normal circumstances I would have never sat in the sagging, foul-smelling chair due to my raging phobia of picking up lice, but as bad luck would have it the chair was mine.

As there was no one seated to my direct left or right (possibly due to the wisps of reek emanating from the cushions) I had the advantage of avoiding the chitchat and just observed. Everyone else seemed connected and comfortable, keeping their voices low and their heads bowed together as they conversed, appearing unaware of the filthy carpet, nicotine stained walls and crud encrusted 60 watt bulb encased in a dead insect tomb of a light fixture. Only I, sitting there perched on the very edge of my seat in an attempt to come in contact with as little fabric as possible, seemed to have pestilence on the brain.

Movement in the vicinity of my right foot caused me to startle and shift all the way back in the chair, instantly provoking a mad rush to wildly fluff my hair to dislodge the parasites. Fingers tangled and caught above my head, I felt it scurry up my leg, claw its way up the front of my shirt and nestle beneath my chin. Surprisingly I didn't scream. Even when the biting started I was silent, my only thought being "Why is no one watching?" "This has to be more interesting than what they're all talking about."

Rainbow explosions pop harmlessly against the low gray clouds in an orange fourth of July skyscape. Orange? The ordinary black backdrop of this patriotic evening has, for the moment, been replaced. I look down at the brick floor of my patio, thinking about nothing at all, my mind a post-apocalyptic-ly boring landscape.
"Oh my god..." Kelly's stunned whisper-shout reaches my ears through a thick haze, "...they've dropped the bomb."
My face snaps vertical. I've always feared nuclear holocaust. There are a few ways I don't want to die, and this is one of them.
There's no need to scan the horizon - I immediately ascertain that many miles in the distance, beneath the sparkling rockets, is an ominous ashen mushroom cloud.
"Where is that?" the words practically dribble off my lips. I'm thinking about which places might be appealing to blow up, wondering why L.A. wasn't the first choice. I'm worried for Kelly, and my family. I'm worried that I won't survive, and the darkly ironic implications of America's national holiday being nuked are not lost on me.
I want to reassure Kelly, but no words come out.

the corner of the student union

Working in a school, where the students stay the same age and I get older, has given me an odd sensation. Even while sitting alone at a table in the corner of the student union working on coffee, my physical body is slowly drifting back from everything before me while my view is magnifying to a greater extent. I've been double-crossed by a seemingly good-hearted mentor, who inspired me enough to take up teaching, and a feeling of dread is working its way up my back, straightening my spine and fusing all its joints. I turn my neck to look behind me and there is nothing. The world is falling into the back of my head, which is now unbearably heavy and pressed sideways against some stone pillar.

The Dentist's Office

Scraps of broken buildings lay landpiled everywhere like bodies of dead whales, hunked and white. I needed to get home. People on all sides of me strove forth leaning, dogged like swimmers through a sudden city downpour.

A stranger came in front of me and leaned up to look into my face. His hair buffed out black, cloudy, his eyes white, slick and clayfaced, and he muttered some plangent sound at me but he was clearly underwater, and I could not hear him. Nevertheless he grabbed my hand and led me down the street as if it was now his way we were taking. He yanked on my wrist and it hurt me with that uncomfortable slip that wet skin has against anything. I struggled pettily. The wet was thick, and grabbed my feet.

He brought me to the dentist's office, a white ramshackle half-hexagon kind of place with chipped rose moldings and walls paneled with whitewash now peeling, showing black. A roaring wind was in there, and the wet man shouted in my face to never go where I was going, but I fought against the wind. A plaque on the wall screamed SSSSHHH at me and I reached the door, the carpet squirting under my feet. The man blew out the other frame, a white wind sucking up a handkerchief, and as I crossed the threshold in the black night all was still.

Write about a dream (without saying "I dreamed").

"They're bunnies," the skinny guy said. He had the brown clothes, the brown truck. "Everyone likes bunnies. For one rabbit, we sell six bunnies. Sign here." He tapped his clipboard with the pen. They were hopping on each other, pinkish, on my porch, crowding the door, open a few inches. The lawn was covered with them, you couldn't see the grass. I kicked one back with my boot.

The guy gave me a look. "That one has a heart condition," he said, and touched his chest. "He can't take much stress." I looked at his name, above his pocket, embroidered: N. But when I looked again, it said: Nikolai. It's my name, I thought.

-Steven Barthelme, Nice Boy (Gulf Stream Magazine #3)

Hi from the Herkimer!

This week, write about a dream, but don't say "I dreamed." Make it as real as possible.

The weirder, the better.

Write with guts!

Pink bunnies, surprise oceans, and a strange sense of urgency,

HERKIMER

Evan Christopher

To fourteen year old Evan Christopher, the night was a stage on which his story would be told. A forbidden world that, while his parents slept, drew him like a pirate to the sea. The magic portal to this realm, his first floor bedroom window. Metal-framed and sideways sliding, he had oiled it to a hush. The only sound a gentle scraping as it slid on its track, an incantation that brought forth his favorite music. The rhythm of crickets. The dialogue of frogs. Insomniatic birds. The distant wash of city traffic. The occasional whoosh of car tires on wet pavement, rising and then falling away on the highway near his home. A beautiful, chaotic symphony of promise.

Ready now. 1:00 AM. It was time. One sneaker on the threshold, hands braced on the chilly frame, he hoisted himself and teetered on the precipice. There by the wall his trusty bike, gold and glistening in the light of the gibbous moon, conspiratorial, waiting for him. Somewhere out there was a place he'd never been. Something he'd never done. He believed danger was a beast that, though it might touch him, would never taste his blood. Fearing nothing, he leapt once again into the abyss.

The Mailman

We put the mailman out the window feet-first, with Robby standing in the stubble of the back yard on a bucket and me on a chair inside lifting the guy by his armpits. He was still sweating. His face kept pressing up against my belly the whole time, so his mouth would gape in his white face, like he was snoring. Each time I wedged it back shut with my forearms. The guy's teeth were like little bits of hominy, all gristly, the back ones with black fillings like moldering peas.We got him through that window good and then I stood there, on the chair, looking at Robby panting. The smell of dust was in the air from the metal sill. The mailman was on the ground, and Robby kicked him.

"Here," he said. He wiped his brow with the back of his arm and then held out his hand.

I took his hand with mine and vaulted through with my other hand on the sill below me. I felt the chair kick out from my feet and had memories from TV of hangman, of suicides. The sill cut into my hand. The air was fresh when I was moving through it.

Write someone coming through a window or a door.

Transitions are hard. For a reader, a poorly-executed one means either a moment of blindness or a slow-motion bog of details.

What do you need to focus on for a good transition? This week, try it out by writing someone going through a window or a door--in the first person. You might find it surprisingly tricky.

Also, stay tuned for the Herkimer's first-ever giveaway, coming up this month! What'll it be--diamond tiaras? Box sets? Opera tickets? 99-cent grab bags? Who knows? READ ON!

Write with guts!

HERKIMER

It's better this way

Tired of making excuses for herself, she kept quiet and fixed her eyes on the glove box. Long after this moment she would realize what she wanted to say to her mother, who was driving her home, "I had to be more than just picked up, I had to be excised from the birthday party like a malignant lump in a sackful of yet harmless but susceptible tumors. Mother, I commend you for taking action as soon as you did. You saved the birthday party from utter ruin." If only she could have had these words properly arranged before they pulled into the driveway, and her mother commanded, "You just sit right here and think about what you did. And don't move until I say so." The beloved daughter appeared shamed, but really she was frustrated at not having found the words to succinctly express her feeling that her playgroup sucks.

It Sucks in Space

Stardate 3214.26.

Dear Reba,

I HATE FUCKING SPACE!!! It's beautiful and all, but let me tell you; in space there ain't NO fucking space. It's cramped. It stinks. The food sucks. And farts last for days. I'm still gaggin' on an ass apple Eddy laid over a week ago, for Chrissakes!

It's fucking boring, too. Everybody just mopes around with sourpuss looks on their mugs. Smartassness is our entertainment. Like "Hey Eddy! It's startin' to smell good around here. Ya think you could grace us with another one of those paint peelers? Huh?"

I gotta say; the captain is a real class-A prick. I'm usually out of his way, but whenever he shows up it's all like "What are the latest Kleindienst readings, Avery?" Or "Bring me those reports by next week, Avery, or there'll be hell to pay." He's a prick. But I guess he's alright.

So me and Eddy are prolly gonna play a game of Canasta later on, but right now I'm gonna duck in the john and flog the dolphin for a while. Nothin' better to do.

Love to you and the kids,
Milton

Storyscape

Storyscape Journal is an online journal that publishes twice per year. It's currently accepting submissions for online publication.

Here's what it has to say about itself:

Once Upon a Time There Was a Story. Everyone has a story. Maybe everything is a story.

Storyscape breaks it down to:

You may swear every word really happened, but we still call it a story. 

This journal has really awesome cover art and is host to some really sassy, fresh, short work.

Submit here.

The Bellingham Review

The Bellingham Review is Western Washington University's once-yearly literary magazine. Despite its slightly odd tagline ("Literature of Palpable Quality"), the Review has published some decent fiction, creative nonfiction, and memoir.

Here's what it has to say for itself:

Literature of palpable quality: poems, stories, and essays so beguiling they invite us to touch their essence. The Bellingham Review hungers for a kind of writing that nudges the limits of form, or executes traditional forms exquisitely.

Submit flash fiction (for online publication only) here.
Enter their 2011 contests in poetry, fiction and memoir here.

Maile

Loose brown fur-skin draped over her floppy ears, the spindly youngling tests out the world with her teeth. Her razor-sharp, tiny teeth. "Ouch!" you yell in genuine frustration, only to melt like butter with one gaze from her perfectly innocent eyes - which happen to be the color of your favorite blue crayon. Her little white third eye rests like a crown jewel atop the chestnut hill of her snout and forehead, almost as if the great exterior designer wanted a tasteful accent to match her snowy oversize paws and tail-tip. Her attention span is as small as her bladder, both of which seem to release before you can blink. This newborn thing has flopped her way into your heart, and you didn't even fight it.

Early Bird

You see him coming from across the street, thick finger like a knockwurst jabbing at the sky, mouth yawning black and round like an inkspot on a white balloon. "Early bird!" he bellows, and the shout comes from his heels for he lifts them up and leans back on a current of air like a stockbroker sitting on his coattails. He steps on the bus as it sighs up to the curb. "Early bird! Early bird! FFFFFUCK yewww!" He swings his briefcase before him and shouts wildly at the bus driver, jacket flying. His shouts go tinny as the doors hiss shut. When you look up, his eyes like wind-worn glass are turned to you, the mouth a thin seam in the puff-blown face.

Duron's Dashiki

The bright orange and camo dashiki seemed as appropriate on Duron's white skin as a bastard child might seem at a family reunion. However, on this day, this time, he was marrying a 120 year old African princess for her money and, despite her budding decrepitude, would wear whatever pleased her.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The minister waxing poetic about the beauty of timed relationships and the importance of binding arbitration. He glanced down as a lizard skittered across the man’s shoe and disappeared under a mossy rock. Looking up at the Jumbotron he saw himself in his detachment. What do I care, he thought. Five years isn't such a long time when one could live to be 150 or more, and rich.

At 90 years old and still in his prime he inwardly praised all scientific advances and outwardly said -- for the thirteenth time in his life -- I do.

his wormhole

Whoa, the feeling that comes with remembering her has caught him again. Now and then he gets close enough to be pulled. It's not so remarkable…it is in him, but its workings are way beyond him. Still, the thought of mending fences dangles before him, keeping his eyes defocused and resting on fuzzy colors. In a moment he has gone a great distance toward the place where her words I'll never forgive you collapsed.

Write a portrait of someone in fewer than 10 sentences.

An enormous man dressed in an oilcloth slicker had entered the tent and removed his hat. He was bald as a stone and he had no trace of beard and he had no brows to his eyes nor lashes to them. He was close on to seven feet in height and he stood smoking a cigar even in this nomadic house of God and he seemed to have removed his hat only to chase the rain from it for now he put it on again. 

--Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian 
 

This week, describe someone--someone you love or hate, someone you know or have never met--vividly and completely, in 10 sentences or fewer.

Write with guts!

HERKIMER