i can hit with both my hands

i can hit w i t h b o t h h a n d s and i n e v e r m i s s pu nches.

••

Hold my jacket, somebody, while I hit Boúpalos in the eye:

•Number Two•

•– Hippónax of ÉpHesos, 525 bce

•The Hudson Valley Naturalist Society

~ an idle pursuit of gentle folk ~

February 22th through February 24th, 2008

The Hudson Valley Naturalist Society is dedicated to the study of endemic fishes, salamaders, small aquatic life, and the lesser mammals of the Greater Northern Hudson River Watershed.

Chartered in 2007, the Society has consistently upheld the highest principles of rigour and exacting method in scientific endeavours.

The Hudson Valley Naturalist Society meets Occasionally.

Sing, muse, the anger of Peleus’ son Achilleus and its devastation, which put pains thousandfold upon the Achaians, hurled in their multitudes to the house of Hades strong souls of heroes, but gave their bodies to be the delicate feasting of dogs, of all birds, and the will of Zeus was accomplished since that time when first there stood in division of conflict Atreus’ son the lord of men and brilliant Achilleus…

– Homer, c. 8tH century bce.

Gavin, you don't know this, but I love you. Not as a man loves a woman, or another man, but as a person loves a hero; someone who is of us yet infinitely beyond us. Gavin, if I could bear you a child, I would bear you an army. If I could build you a boat, it would be made of gold.Use me. Use me. I am yours. Use me.

– aaron reuben, 2008

You can do whatever you want. You are a 1. grown‑ass individual.

Aim high, and to the left.2.

All handicaps can be replaced with 3. drinking handicaps.

Table of Contents

Winter in the City of Bones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1emergency procedures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2one . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3two. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5danger shots . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8Anmíng. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9invocation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16PP. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17good behavior . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19bad behavior . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22unfolding . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24billy is the bump . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27the normandy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29theree . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30Sophie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32Bed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33three. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34four . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37five. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39contributing members . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42

The hudson Valley naTuralisT socieTy

• 1 •8

number Two

Winter in the City of BonesBy Aaron S. Reuben

inTeR in The CiTY of BoneS we fled; partisans to the hills. With our smoky flasks and soot‑bellied stove, we piled sawdust from mortar, cut ashes from wood. incubated in the crisp Yukon air, we found the lakes did come to sit and stay.

Best of all: when each morning broke, you knew that it was yours to repair.

W

• 2 •8


• 3 •8

number Two

oneBy W. Gavin Robb

n WAveS lefT on SAnd The shadows disappear. in between the lines of water, left behind on the sand after there are no more waves of water, in between those lines the fine grains of ruddy – they used to be mountains, you know, and sea‑shells; this bit here is from a column in Rome

– sand catch between your toes ‑ they catch see, and you have to dig your finger in between your toes to get at all the bits of grass and granite and fish skeletons, see, like this ‑ and cling under the fine hairs that you never think about except for now, since they’re holding the sand in close to the flesh of your feet and digging in the cracks of your toes.

in between the lines of waves, on the sand, your feet settle slowly. if you pound them down the surface pounds back but when you sit and let it all creep around your ankles you can just feel the damp sea water around your ankles in soft pulses which are the pulses of the sea water running through your ankles – just sea water with bits of iron added, see, chemically the composition is identical – and the pulses of the sea water driven by the wind and by the sun. The water which is inside of you is the water which is outside of you, ex‑cept that before there was no outside but just water and so the water which is now outside of you wants to convene with the water which is inside of you, and congregate with the water which is inside of you, and become the water which is inside of you.

I

emergency proceduresunattributed

n The evenT of An emeRGenCY, remain calm. follow all instructions and listen to your flight crew for important information.

Robert returned the emergency procedural to its sleeve along with the Skymall and vomit bag.

I

• 4 •8


• 5 •8

number Two

twoBy W. Gavin Robb

T'S noT ouT TheRe WheRe You would expect it – in the sun and the sand – where things fall apart. it's here, in the quiet moments of the night where i look over and see him breathing softly, and realize that he can't see me, especially not now that he's sleeping with his eyes closed (and

his lips are still mumbling softly to themselves) and he's breathing softly on his side, facing the window. The moonlight is pale and yellow, and it slants in through the curtains, and it makes the walls shine in a way that you can't imagine, in a way that can't lie, and i'm reading between the lines that he's half‑speaking, half‑whis‑pers and half‑sentences that he's muttering through his lips.

it's funny in a way, because you'd almost expect it all to go in sound and fury – in full view, with all the sparks. Apocalyptic. Technicolor. Still, i guess that all of the real disasters we've lived through in the past 10 years have been personal disasters. When we heard on the radio that a plane had gone down (and we knew, the both of us just knew as soon as we heard) and then we heard the number of the plane and he looked at me involuntarily and blinked twice involuntarily. And then, later, when there was a sharp knock on our door and then everything that unfolded after that knock (and kept unfolding, tumbled right from the front stoop through the front door and into the little yellow entry hall, rattling all the pictures, and suddenly she wasn't coming home after all) and my

I

in the air that is hung heavy with humidity there is a glowing, even though there are no shadows, and pieces of the sun fall to‑ward the earth – here, open your fist and catch one, see? see how it's brown at the edges? this one was part of a sunspot, you can tell because – one by one, and bounce off the lines in the sand which were left by the waves and they bounce horizontally – it's noon, see, because the beach looks like a bundle of knotted ropes, look, you can see all the way to the pier even through all this haze, wow, look, the

– so that the horizon dances slow unsteady and the sand shimmers quick unsteady.

And later, in the worn brown front seat (well‑loved) of the old pickup truck (painted white, paint laid on thick in layers), after the sun and the water – days later, even! ha ha! days! imagine! – you can still feel the grit of the sand stuck in between your toes, like it's stuck in between your teeth, like it's refusing to wash off with the salt but is instead the dried remains of the salt and it is sunk into the skin of your ankles (a reminder of the water outside of you which yearns for the water inside of you) and toes. And later, in the worn front seat, he lays his head in your lap and the rusted white pickup truck bounds sweetly through the ruts in the sand dunes. You had carried him on your back to keep him from the water (which was outside of you), because he didn't want to get wet, because he didn't want to be reminded of the water (which is outside of the both of you) – too salty for me! ha! ha! too – because he isn't made of water at all, but made of something else entirely. You had carried him from the shore to the rusted white pickup truck and now you are tired with your hands on the large steering wheel easy and the truck is bounding softly through the dunes and he is laying his head on your lap and his eyes are closed and his lips are murmuring softly to your leg and pieces of the sun are falling through the windshield and the white truck sails calmly towards them.

• 6 •8


• 7 •8

number Two

showed him the yellow pale moonlight coming in sideways through the curtains, from the water.

throat tightened involuntarily and my chest tightened involuntar‑ily. There's never really been any of the thunder you would expect from a catastrophe, just the noises we generate to ourselves. Just the quiet moments like these in yellow pale moonlight that's creeping in under the curtains (which are our curtains, which are shining and thin like mother‑of‑pearl) and him breathing softly beside me and all of the air from the sun and the salt and the sea hanging and the remnants of the sea hanging in the walls (and in the cracks in the walls) and maybe it is in a moment like this one (or a moment not unlike this one) where everything suddenly changes.

not with a crash, mind you. Sometimes you don't even notice it. one moment everything is there and everything is bathed in yel‑llow pale moonlight and then the next moment everything is still there and is still bathed in yellow pale moonlight and all that has changed is the passing of moments but it has slipped, somehow, and it has slid, somehow, and suddenly the moonlight doesn't look so yellow or nearly as lyrical anymore (or rather there's nothing left to sustain it, or rather it has changed as well, or rather it has become increasingly rational) but something in the air has changed, or maybe just the way that you look at the air has changed, or maybe that's just the way that you have always looked at the air at four o'clock in the morning after a long sun‑soaked day but it's quiet now and the moon is slipping in sideways through the curtains.

he is breathing by your side, oblivious of course. Strange how everything has changed in an instant – a tornado just ripped through the small white‑washed house, through the small white‑washed house by the beach (the house that you two share, that you have shared since that first day in march, since that first day two years ago in march) and has left all the lathe and stucco scattered in pieces lingering in the air and blown to dust so fine that it's refined, and it's refined so that you can hardly even breathe it in and no, of course he can't see in this light, what were you thinking anyway, of course he can't. he doesn't think in the same ways that you do, he doesn't see things in the same way. Wouldn't know what to make of it if you woke him up right now and told him all about the yel‑low pale moonlight, and described the yellow pale moonlight, and

• 8 •8


• 9 •8

number Two

AnmíngBy John Cusick

T Seven, 30 minuTeS BefoRe ShoW time, there is a knock on the dressing room door. Anmíng sits sideways in the leather armchair, legs crooked over the arm rest, wine glass balanced on her silk‑sheathed belly. her shoulders pinch reflexively. This is a sacred ritual, her glass

of Cabernet taken in meditative silence, alone with whatever warmed‑over thoughts choose to

float by. She treasures the lull before her veins flood with adrenaline, the fuzzy calm before her eye‑sight sharpens and her fingertips begin to tingle. for a concert pianist, whose art is one‑quarter muscle memory, a Zen non‑concentration, such center‑ing rituals are vital.

“Come in.”

The door clicks, a bouquet appears in the vanity mirror and quiv‑ers like a flag of surrender. it is replaced by the head and shoulders of a young man in a fitted suit. The apple cheeks and curls, the apol‑ogetic smile, he might have been an intern for a hospitality service.

“david.” The name is drawn out, her tone is at once a welcome and rebuke. The smirking parent waves her finger. he smiles, free hand palm‑out in defense.

Adanger shots

By John Cusick & evan Simko‑Bednarski

o PlAY dAnGeR ShoTS, You need, (1) a bb gun, (2) a target, (3) a bottle of beer and (4) a flask of

whiskey. You set the target up so that the bulls‑eye is a half inch above the top of the beer bottle.

The object is to hit the bullseye. if your shot lands anywhere outside the inner target ring, you have to

take a drag on the beer and then put it back. But if you get the bullseye, the other guy, specifically John, has to drink the beer and the whiskey. All of it. if you break the bottle in your attempt, however, then you have to down all the whiskey.

The game should never be played twice in a row.

You may also need health insurance.

t

• 10 •8


• 11 •8

number Two

“my Schubert will sound like a music box.”

he returns her hand to the wine glass, a resigned smile cast at the floor. in life he is a prize fighter, a light weight in the board room, quick and unstoppable, a heavy weight in the bedroom, delivering slow, delicious blows. But here, in her room, he becomes a rookie, too eager at the medicine bag, a fumbler, in need of constant instruc‑tion.

“Go get your seat. They’ll be dimming the lights soon.”

he wants to protest, but does not. he is the renegade entrepre‑neur, she is the beautiful young artist. They will make a perfect life together among the spires of manhattan. in exchange, he must occasionally submit to being the trophy husband, ushered from the room when there is important artistic business at hand. he nods and rises. The roses find a home on the vanity table. She hears the door open and close again.

Alone, her frustration takes the form of a long, heavy breath. What did he expect? That they’d make love on the floor of her dress‑ing room? The silk dressed hiked up to her hips, the dust and grit pressing themselves into her shoulders, her hair? And then with the kissing her fingers, her ring finger. As if this place on her body, so newly marked as his territory, had developed an extra sensitivity. Trying to assert himself, as always. even here, in her room, in her house with its acoustically impeccable vaults, built to celebrate her gifts.

As soon as the wine touches her lips there is another knock at the door. There is no hope of privacy tonight, apparently.

“Come in.” her focus is on the glass. She traces the rim with her finger as he enters. “did you forget something?”

She feels a hand on her shoulder and smells the tart musk of ci‑gars. her eyes rise to the mirror and find him there, towering over her in the dark blue folds of his suit. it’s an old‑fashioned family

“i know, i know. i shouldn’t be here. i just had to see you first.”

it’s been exactly twelve hours since she’s seen him, and their last glance also took place in a mirror: he smiling as he slips out the door, clad in bike shorts and a pullover, white ear‑buds dangling to his waist, the sunlight flooding her one‑room studio, glancing off the silver‑backed piano and leaving sunspots in her vision, she is half‑asleep, eye‑dazzled in her bright, damp bed.

now, watching her in this smaller mirror, david moves into the room. he dips to kiss her cheek, a dry sexless peck, and she smells the fruity cologne she’s bought him. his athlete’s body takes to the suit like China wrapped in newspaper. he misses his shapeless pullover, the ratty thing he often does business in, his nouveau corporate bro look. She insists on formal attire for her concerts, and has resorted to threats when he attempts to offset Ralph lauren slacks with a pair of trainers. now it is not yet eight and the silk tie already hangs at his collar bone. She’s no snob, but doesn’t a debut at Carnegie hall deserve a little extra effort?

“You look beautiful.”

“Thanks.”

he rests the roses on the floor – they’re only a token, his ticket into the room. he kneels at her side, taking her hand in his. he is tender with her hands. There is no need; they are calloused and large, secured to thick wrists and arms as powerful as a dancer’s legs. There is delicacy in her work, but it requires great strength. he kisses her fingertips, following each one down to the palm. She’s al‑ready removed her engagement band and set it in the silver pill case on the vanity. he kisses the ring’s special place, and she flinches. he mistakes this for arousal and moves on to her wrist.

“You’ll give me the shivers.”

“So?”

• 12 •8


• 13 •8

number Two

At the mention of his wife’s name the sharp eyes drift. he waves a hand in exasperation. “oh, probably asleep already.” Anmíng pic‑tures their high bed, a walker positioned at the ready, orthopedic pillows littering the floor, the smell of vinyl sheets. This is all spec‑ulation; she’s never seen his bedroom.

“And so, my darling, how are you feeling?” his hand is on her shoulder again, and though her instinct is to retract she takes a step forward.

“oh lovely,” she says. “it’s all so exciting. Actually, i’m a little heady.”

“Too much wine.”

“Too much everything.” Something occurs to her. “did you pass david in the hall?” She doesn’t know why the thought of david meeting her aging benefactor on his way to her room should trou‑ble her, but it does.

his smile is apish, knowing. “no. We meet in secret.”

She laughs, a childish trill which david has pointed out she only releases in Alan’s company. it’s false, of course. She doesn’t know what to do with his flirting. She can’t possibly take it seriously, but if it’s a joke, it’s not very funny either. As if her thoughts were a prompt, Alan removes the wine glass from her hand and sets it on the table. it’s an invasive gesture, somehow more intimate than physical contact. “enough of this,” it seems to say. “hold me tightly, instead. Take sips from me. let me make you swoon.”

The apish smile has faded, and it occurs to her that soon she will no longer need his support. She has david now, and david’s future millions, and her connection to Alan, while not severed, has become ambiguous. The question of money, rather than an uncomfortable reality, has been a ballast in their relationship, balancing their in‑teractions, drawing a line under her fake, girlish laugh, his feath‑ery, wet kisses. As with the removal of the wine glass, the absence

portrait, the patriarch lays a proprietary hand on his child bride. She stands, nearly toppling her glass.

“Alan.”

his face, an expectant smile, blurs momentarily. She’s stood too fast with only wine in an otherwise empty stomach.

“Songbird.” This is his nickname for her. They touch cheeks, and she smells something beneath the cigars, something elderly, anti‑septic. his skin is soft like an infant’s and covered in a fine down. he takes her hands in his own, pressing them around the glass. Whether this is too familiar for a benefactor and his protégé seems unimportant. Alan is an old man and rich, she is young and beauti‑ful, and dependent on his support. Who is she to deny him a grand‑fatherly kiss on the cheek, or a hand on her bare shoulder? it seems natural, an old arrangement.

“did you receive my flowers?”

She has, hours before, just as she was stepping out of the shower. The messenger delivered two demure little lilies in a turquoise vase, with a note, “Yours, Alan.”

“i did. They’re lovely.”

“They reminded me of your Andante. Shimmering and simple.”

This is something they share, a conspiracy of taste. The joyless business which has brought him his fortune is coupled with decades of philanthropy. Art is his business too, and music his guarded pas‑sion. They can talk for hours in a code that mystifies their spouses, a language that crosses a generation as simply as fingers skipping from one note to the next.

“Where is enid?” his brittle companion never attends her perform‑ances.

• 14 •8


• 15 •8

number Two

intruded upon, then invaded, then interrupted. Always upon. nev‑er left alone. She feels the heat in her limbs and knows her cheeks are flush. now everything moves quickly, there is no time to think, to reflect on her future with these men. The moments after her per‑formance is finished, the night ahead, the years to follow.

An attendant in black is ushering her onto the stage, an inviolable space. The piano lies waiting, waiting to sing at her touch, to give thundering, shivering voice to the songs in her mind. And the audi‑ence, invisible beyond the footlights, applaud politely, ready to be filled.

• The End •

of his patronage leaves a gap between them, a gap which must grow larger or be collapsed.

They are now holding hands. is this how he seduced women when he was young? enid was a dancer. did he visit her in her dressing room before the overture? did he put aside her wine (white for enid, a Chablis) and frown in that serious, masculine way that now seemed so dated, like something out of Gone With the Wind? how many young women have been drawn to his money, his taste in fine wine, in classical music, in flowers? She is not his first protégé.

now is the moment, he thinks, before she slips his hold on her, now would be the time, on the night of her debut at this prestigious hall, when her mind is alive with sun spots. now, if ever. And if ever she would, now would be the moment. But no.

“Alan…”

The door opens. david knocks as he enters, exploding into the room. Their eyes meet over Alan’s sloping shoulder. There is some‑thing victorious in david’s grin. “So,” she thinks, “he did see him coming down the hall.”

“Sorry, Angel. They want to know if you’re ready.”

Alan, at the sound of david’s voice, turns towards the intruder, still grasping one of her hands in his own. he is unperturbed at be‑ing caught, a veteran philanderer. for a moment, she admires how he greets her fiancé with a smile, refusing to release her hand, re‑fusing to explain himself. The men shake hands. it is time for the artist to take the stage. She receives a kiss on the cheek, first from her lover, then from her benefactor. The kisses are indistinguish‑able except for the faint scents these men leave in the air. like sig‑natures. The room is now theirs, a place for the men to talk. She has been given the bum’s rush. She is through the door, down the hall. She had not even finished her Cabernet.

• 16 •8


• 17 •8

number Two

PPunattributed

Avin enJoYS The meChAniCS of TYPe. evan enjoys types of mechanics.

swssssss

That is a satisfying twack. or thwack, even, if i would type the correct word. The action feels less visceral, that is it feels somewhat removed from my ixfingers, but t is very smooth and i don’t haveto worry about keep ng a constant pres‑sure. the upper‑case mechan sm also looks like it o erates in a dif‑ferent way than i am used to, that is it doesn’t lift the enti e carr age up but doessomething differently. the backspace key is also vari‑able, and michael said that the p key wasn’t working,

but it seem st to be working alright now. ppppppppppppppppppppppp .

ddddddddddddd

strikers. union breaker.

yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy so much sugar. So much sugar oh my god .

G

invocationunattributed

iGh SToolS ARe foR WRiTinG, loW chairs are for edit‑ing. You have to write with tension in your back or else nothing good comes out. You have to be uncom‑fortable to write, so that the image inside your head doesn't rest there – doesn't get any rest there – and is forced out. editing is a different beast, and requires

command, not anxiety.

never mind the details, we have miles of ribbon and acres of for‑est to occupy us. Shit, why not? Why hold back. Why should we ever bother with something so simple. fuck it.

H

• 18 •8


• 19 •8

number Two

good behaviorBy evan Simko‑Bednarski

he WAS lATe. And ThAT WAS familiar and reassuring.

Jason turned the coins idly in his pocket, wondering whether they were heads or tails and what they might be worth. The wind kicked up his coat and, his other hand preoc‑cupied with the luggage, he resigned himself

to the whirlwind of wool. Taxicabs were leaving taxistands, there were kisses goodbye, kisses hello, and amidst this every permuta‑tion of his current situation he felt strangely detached, as though he would not become the person waiting for her until she had arrived.

– heads. nickel.

he glanced down at the coin in his cupped hand. five cents off and wrong by one hundred and eighty degrees. damn.

This wait was good. he could recalibrate. Remember things like which side of the road was used for driving and how many miles he could drive over the limit before she took her hand off his thigh.

he took in his surroundings, reacclimating. he gave names to the things he saw, little nodes of familiarity. Terminals. Skycaps. That was the roar of engine noises. That was called the sky.

SJordanBy John Cusick & W. Gavin Robb

oRdAn ReCoGniZed The momenT When iT came: she thought of a paperweight her father owned, a stainless steel model of the Spruce Goose balanced on the head of a needle. She was that plane, quivering on the pinnacle of her own physiological needle. one more drink and she

would be thoroughly pissed.

here was the situation she had foolishly assembled: nearly all of her ex‑lovers in a single room. Was this really her idea of a wonder‑ful birthday? her friends were there of course, elegant women in boots and short skirts. But to the best of her knowledge, the men had all been hers: or at least they had been hers first.

david the banker, Arnold the architect (spouting platitudes in the corner to elise, of course, that was the real reason that they had bro‑ken up anyway), louis the musician (louis had always had a certain air of detachment – maybe it was the bourbon talking but she had always found this very attractive: in fact she still found it difficult to take her eyes off of him…). There were others, too, one‑nighters though, who knew what they were capable of, who knew because she had always given them the same look in the morning that had let them know exactly how she felt about the whole thing. She was frankly surprised that any of them had shown up.

J

• 20 •8


• 21 •8

number Two

he tried again, hands to elbows, feet to knees. every inch of her body beyond these borders was impenetrable. unimaginable.

When he'd left from this terminal months prior, the layout had been the same. But the individual pieces‑‑the luggage, the jetplanes, the ticket agents‑‑had all been different. his mind held the memory of an airport that no longer was. in the same way, her body's marks and memories were those of a body thirteen months past, inacces‑sible for want of existence.

– dime. tails.

Shit; wheat‑penny.

up ahead there was an aberrant spot in a long line of taxis: a steel‑gray ford, late and reassuring. The queue worked in pulses as the cars pulled up, let off, let in, and went out. The ford advanced slowly and without rhythm. As it approached he counted the rust spots, let his eyes trace the scratch from the rivet of his jeans. There was an unfamiliar dent above the front right wheel. nothing broken, just a change in topography.

The car slowed to a stop with a familiar sputter as the old trans‑mission fluttered, momentarily, then dropped into gear. it kicked obstinately as the engine droned. he could see her through the dirty, half opened window. After a pause, she reached a long arm across the long bench of the front seat and let him in. She was wearing long sleeves and a turtleneck. he took his hand out of his pocket, finally patted down his coat, hoisted his suitcase. Where could he have gotten a wheat‑penny?

he ducked his head down and got into the car.

he followed a long sleeve up, up with his eyes to her face and said, "hello."

he fumbled with another coin.

– heads. eisenhower

dime. Tails.

huh. Broke even.

Thus establishing himself in space, he moved on to time. history, to be accurate. it had been about thirteen months, and he struggled to conjure her outline up from memory. he started with her hands, wrapped firmly around the steering wheel, guiding her path to the airport. he began to work his way simultaneously up both arms to her elbows when his mind caught on an almost forgotten snag ‑ a small scar on her forearm, from stealing apples through a barbed wire fence when she was twelve. it had bled for hours through her bandanna while she'd tried to hide the cut from her mother.

he tried again, starting from the feet up. only to be thwarted again by a childhood of playground scratches located about the knees.

he stopped.

– quarter. tails.

Too easy.

her scars were like town names on a map. he thought of where she'd been cut by the sprockets of her bicycle on a rainy trail in or‑egon. he remembered cleaning the wound, gingerly wrapping her calf. he recalled gently unpinning her hair in the tent later that night…

he'd cast his eyes upon many maps in her absence, many towns and many names. She too, he assumed, had done her fair share of traveling, adding names, scars and memories.

• 22 •8


• 23 •8

number Two

onward to time, history, world events. her hands, wrapped around her path to the airport. simultaneously, both arms to her mind caught on an almost forgotten barbed wire fence. she was twelve and it had bled for hours through her bandana, hid from her mother.

town names on a map, her bicycle on a rainy trail in oregon. un‑pinning her hair, he had seen many maps through his eyes, and many names.

hands to elbows, feet to knees. jawline to earlobe.

the parts had been the same. his mind held the memory of an airport that no longer existed. shit.

an abberant spot in a long line of texts, a steel‑gray ford, late and reassuring, jumped with the long line of other cars waiting for other people's stories. as the ford approached him he changed the scratches from the rivet of his jeans. nothing broken, just a change in typography.

long‑sleeves and turtleneck. he finally patted down and hoisted his suitcase.

he ducked his head down and got into the car. he followed her sleeve up and said "hello."

bad behaviorBy W. Gavin Robb as evan Simko‑Bednarski

e TuRned The Coin idlY in his pocket, won‑dering whether it was heads or tails and what denomination it represented.

– heads or tails relative to what?

The wind kicked up his coat and the luggage, that was familiar and reassuring. every permutation of his current situation he felt strongly, as though the person waiting for her had arrived.

– heads. presbytarian. nickel.

he glanced down at the coin in his cupped hand. five cents off and wrong by two sets of liturgical rites. damn.

The wait was good. he could recalibrate. how many miles he could go over the limit before she took her hand off his thigh. he gave names to the nodes of familiarity, he fumbled with another coin.

– heads. eisenhower.

dime. tails. huh. broke even.

H

• 24 •8


• 25 •8

number Two

among all the waves, and the selkies can slip out of their skins and become beautiful women. They can slip out of their gorged round bodies and spread out legs and fingers with no flippers. Their bones become closer to being outside of themselves. Their bones become able to dance. maddie pushed her arms against her blanket cocoon. She pushed her arms.

maddie’s father opened the car door and deposited Sarah, bundled in a snowsuit, into the cocoon and into her arms. Wiggling to make more room, maddie pulled back her sister’s hood. She rubbed her nose up against the baby’s glossy hair, pasted so thinly over her scalp. her father walked around to the other side of the car, slid into the drivers’ seat, pulled the door closed behind him and started the car. “Try to sleep, honey.”

She woke to Sarah rustling her blankets as her father opened the back door and let in a cold gust of air. The sky was white, in the way that it can be a sort of grey white before the sun has risen. maddie crawled out of her blanket and into the light blue parka her father held open for her, first the right arm, then the left. he zipped her up and put her hood on, pulling the strings to cinch it shut in a puck‑ered circle around her face. “my hair is in my eyes.” he reached his finger in and pushed it away. “Better?” She nodded. he held a shoe open for her. “Push.”

They walked out across the sand, still covered in snow over a layer of ice. maddie's steps crunched, and the walking was slow. her father held her hand with his free one.

They made their way toward the rocks, and maddie’s nose and left cheek hurt from the wind. At its very bottom, the sky was turn‑ing pale green across the ocean. The sun was peeking its discolored tongue up from the ground on the other side of the world.

Their father swept the snow off a small rock at the edge of the jetty. he again set Sarah down in her sister’s lap, and reached into his backpack to pull out a canister of hot chocolate and two cups. he filled them and set one down next to maddie. “it’s Sarah’s first

unfoldingBy Rachel S. Shopper

T WAS Time To GeT uP.

They went to the sea. it was not a short drive and the snow blew dry across the roads. it got windier toward the coast, and who knew if it smelled like the ocean, because all of the windows were closed.

it was time to get up and go to the sea.

maddie stretched softly and turned over in bed. As she blinked and yawned, her father rubbed her back, “Come on honey, it’s

time to get going.” She nuzzled her face into the covers and curled up. The dark softened her father’s face. his eyes, always gentle and wet, glowed with small, dull squares of window. outside, it wasn’t dawn, but the obfuscation of night was giving way to slate grey shadows. The barn door, the rhododendron bushes, the bicycles: all were visible, but wrapped in dusky hues that made them something not themselves. Gathering the blankets around maddie and picking her up, all wrapped in the covers, he carried her downstairs and out the door to the car, laying her down on the backseat.

maddie curled up in the backseat of the car and let her eyes go heavy again. last summer they had built a bonfire on the beach and her mother had danced, she had unbraided her hair and run to the water. She once told maddie, there are seals on and in and

I

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number Two

billy is the bumpunattributed

oW iS The Time foR noW is the time for all ogood e uuuu

hgfdooo;;k uiouygyhuiyhgfjkl;lkj

now is the time for all good ment to come to the aid of their country kkkkkkkkkkhhhhhh‑hhhhh

nic ols

s hello h

Ghello

The sly gray fox jumpedphre k66

qwertyuippasdfghjkl;czxcvvbnm,./c;lkjhgfpop

katelyn

pppppp

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birthday, today, maddie. Your sister has been part of this world for a year, and she looks more like the world every day. her eyes are get‑ting to know the ocean.”

maddie stretched out her sister’s arm, long, and splayed out the fingers of her tiny hand.

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number Two

the normandyunattributed

eRe ComeS The funk. noThinG BuT the funk. eve‑ryone loves

nobody knows the trouble i've seen. nobody knows but Jesus.

Truth. Truth in comedy.

We were palisaded up at the normandy hotel. used to be called the Troy hotel until Young Smith bought it up in the early eighties.

H

pppppppppppppppppp88ispppheppppppp

my a eiimichaeladi aa

pop ithe name opopoiuytrewqasdfghjkl;c/.,mnbvcxzkkkk

th

hjkk

ko

carola hahskcrymy mede is Boda? lh?y??billy is the bump

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number Two

That was the last thing she had noticed about him—

A memory of hands. A memory of hands. A memory of hands. A short sharp shock. A memory of hands. A memory of hands. A short sharp shock. To Carthage I cane, burning, O lord thou pluckest

thereeunattributed

he ToWn GReW uP ARound A cut in the earth. the city had grown up around a cut in the

earth, which had been called a river

– wild animals in the basement

– the question of grasping a position, how to determine a spatial read

narcisystem.

Alan Townbee had grown up in a manicured world. every

Theree

There was a distance and a death between us. he led a manicured life. She had won a beauty pageant in the third grade, and he had noticed her eyes.

That was the first thing he had noticed about her —

A memory of hands. A memory of hands. A memory of hands. A short sharp shock. A short sharp shock. A short sharp shock. A des‑perate breath To Carthage i came, burning, o lord thou pluckest

T

This distance between iconography and iconology in the active moment.

Writing is about finding an image and pulling it through to a page.

Wild animals in the basement. ‑‑‑‑‑‑======‑‑‑‑‑====d 1‑2 1‑2 1‑4 1‑

4 1‑

4 1‑

4 1‑

4 1‑

4 1‑

4 1‑

4 1‑

4 1‑

4

@@@?

She had won a beauty pageant in the third grade. She held her hands sweetly in her lap.

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number Two

BedBy Sarah h. elmaleh

he TuRned off The liGhT And looked around her bedroom. The warm glow of the lamp hav‑ing fled its features like flush from cheeks. The prints and perfumes looked forced and melancholy. her matching luggage still un‑packed after two weeks of being home seemed to gossip in clusters around the plush chair in

absence of a water cooler. her stuffed animals, overeager and glassy‑eyed, were like the long‑faithful rather homely best friend. Just a matter of time before accidental abuse is heaped on such creatures. She scanned left and right, reading and writing as she went, until the dark fluff just peeking out from her flowered sheets blurred her vision and her stomach went warm. he was vulnerable and oblivi‑ous, dreaming of books on shelves with his name on the binding, and as she folded herself in the downy bedcovers like stiff vacuous egg whites, his rich, warm yolkiness was the promise of dawn.

S

SophieBy Sarah h. elmaleh

oPhie'S eYeS RefoCuSed, And The STeAdY hum in her ears recrystallized into distinct (if still meaningless) words. ("So, how many obtuse angles can we have in a triangle?") it was 20 minutes to recess, and Sophie was both bored and impatient. She was desperately eager to unleash the payload of music video

knowledge she had absorbed over the weekend. enthusiasm and disdain were to be vigorously applied to her reports, bolstered by a crowded colonnade of punchy expletives. These bright new words were enough entertainment in and of themselves to last the whole lunch break. She liked the way they rattled and zoomed around and out of her mouth like pinballs. not like her own name, which was terribly precious.

S

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number Two

and listen intently. Cock my head to the side. i think i recognize the melody briefly before it takes an unexpected turn. Some woman humming along with an orchestra in between scratches of static. Turn the water back on – it's cold and takes a few seconds to readjust. Good. i rarely let the water touch my face in the mornings but this morning i do: i close my eyes and stare up intently into it, and pull my hair back repeatedly with my hands, like i'm trying to pull my head back and down through the drain at the bottom of the shower. it steels you up, having to keep your eyes closed. my hair is slimy and damp and thick as ropes.

The whole house is steaming by the time i step out, white tow‑el wrapped and skin glowing red (like i've just been baked) even though the day is already warm and dry. The carton of eggs is out on the counter and the carton is open and the eggs inside are round with fuzzy whiteness and sit in two rows, two straight rows, in the fuzzy blue carton that looks like felt.

The first egg cracks with a satisfying pop and bits of the soft fuzzy whiteness of the egg fly into the pan before i can control my hands. The second egg crushes on the side of the frying pan and i have to work my fingers delicately into the crushed side and work the crack out of it before it can sizzle and sputter. over easy. he likes his eggs over easy and so do i, which is convenient, which is convenient. he's not in the kitchen now, he's somewhere else entirely, but i can hear him moving slightly on my periphery. The pan is hissing and sputtering and bubbling up, and mixes with (and flows out of) the hissing of the little wooden radio (which is brown) which is sitting near the sill of the window with the sky behind it (which is cobalt) and the spitting of the radio mingles with the spitting of the sea on the shore below the sky (which is steel) and the hissing of the shore mingles with the hissing of the two eggs in the frying pan (which is silver).

We eat in silence and chew deliberately. We don't waste a crumb. it's massively important, in this moment, in this morning, that the egg and the dry toast get eaten exactly, intently, that our eyes don't stray more than a degree from the borders of the smooth white

threeBy W. Gavin Robb

he nexT moRninG, of CouRSe, We act like noth‑ing has happened. We wake up slowly: i scratch myself and yawn, i put my left hand up in the air (trying to pull down the air), my left eye scrunched up so tight that i see spots. fumble for a crumpled shirt by the side of the bed. Put

my right arm up in the air: one, two... three. Twist the muscles in my back that are knotted together like the roots of redwoods. one, two.... three. Pull sideways at the part of my hair that's always frizzed, roll my tongue around the copper battery cavity of my mouth.

he's slower than i am in the mornings. he's still lying on his back on the bed and he's got the back of his left hand pressed up against his forehead so that it covers his eyes even though his eyes are closed. he's speaking in a morning language which hasn't yet developed words or sentences but is rich in phonemes. uhern. won‑ahm. mroarn, dips? "Sure," i say, "i'll do eggs. Get some clothes on, we've got to be civilized" as i toss a crumpled pair of jeans over his head. familiar things. formal gestures. Rituals that keep us going.

The water is hotter than it should be and scalds my skin so that it turns red in patches and starts to glow. it's hard to wake up other‑wise. i can hear him through the wall, on the other side of the wall, moving around the small kitchen. opening the window, making the static crackle on the radio. i turn the water off for a moment

T

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number Two

fourBy W. Gavin Robb

CAn imAGine heR hAiR AS She'S walking un‑der a wide bank of trees, the moon is throwing down extruded patterns of latticework that are landing on her hair. That's as far as i can see, down to the nape of her neck. Brown curls, mostly black and just barely brown and mostly

straight but just barely curls, flowing down over the back of the nape of her neck and the moonlight is kissing the nape of her neck through the trees and the branches have tangled it. i can't see her face, not through this fog. She's humming to herself.

And suddenly i'm sitting here in front of this glowing window and i'm creating the space for others to live in, i'm creating a room that will hold guilt and laughter and years of stories, years of be‑ing that will play themselves out through the forms of these rooms, through the specific shape of this baseboard molding (which maybe will hold a tear, perhaps after they part in anger, her left alone in this tightly orchestrated kitchen and him driving furiously down the winding dirt road in front of the re‑graded and re‑paved drive‑way), the exact dimension of this doorway will hold a moment in time, where maybe she will sit and look back over her life within this one moment in time, between these door jambs that i have de‑signed, and so i am complicit in that. in a way i have participated in all of that unfolding which i am not party to.

I

plates. it's very, very, important that the eggs be eaten with preci‑sion, so that we can hear the crackle of the radio program which the sea is struggling to deliver to us, with the static and sputtering and washing of the motion of the waves on the sand and the sound gen‑erated by the friction of the water on the sand as the water comes up over the sand and lobs the noises of the friction of the waves in a large slow arc into our window and out of the front of our radio.

it's very important that all of the yolk (which is yellow, which has run all over the little smooth white plates) be swept up by the crusts of bread and it's very important that all the crumbs that are left on the little white plates be swept up by our index fingers so that nothing is left over, so that everything is used up, so that there are no remains of this breakfast after we have both gotten up from the table and have both stepped through the peeling white door jamb down the bleached ivory steps (made of driftwood that we found two years ago, on a soft april night two years ago, that looked like dragons, look, he said, the sea has thrown us up terrible monsters and they got caught here on this rock for us to make into doorsteps), him turning left and i turning right. it's important that this mo‑ment be preserved, that nothing breaks it apart, that it be in both our memories exactly like it was, as a whole unit, made of crystal.

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number Two

fiveBy W. Gavin Robb

T'S The Time of The dAY when the rooms grow dark and the light is more even and it's the time of the day when the shadows shorten and it's the time of the day just before the time of day when you become aware of the hours. i hadn't noticed at all, in the world that i'm immersed in

(where the sea is my cradle, where the wind is rocking me sweetly to the cries of gulls) now and floating, in this world where there is no passing (where the sea water in my veins which is pulsing softly, where the sea water is lulling me softly to disbelieve) and there are no shadows. This is a place made of diamond, which con‑sists of sea water, which exists purely to create what i would like to pull through.

it's the time of the day when shadows slip sideways in, and it's the most dangerous time of the day. for a minute everything starts to heave and there's an involuntary slip and a shudder. it's the one time of the day where you can see things just like they are, just like tenuous bits of matter just holding on to other tenuous bits of matter and the whole thing is just spinning too fast. her eyes flicker to the lower right corner, and her eyes flicker to the lower right corner.

i'm nauseous. i need to go to the bathroom. i need to sit down for a minute. no, it's ok. i'll be fine. no, really. Put the phone down. There's no need. i've done this before. it's ok. it's all ok. it's all

I

And then she's walking along the avenue at night, perhaps she's filled with self‑forgetfulness of him, perhaps she has even and i'm then suddenly in front of this desk and it's day, even though i reek of cigarettes and bourbon, and i'm shaping part of her life and i don't even know her well enough to take any responsibility for it.

But the moonlight is getting tangled in the trees, and i can take my cues from that, i can glean my geometry from the moonlight, be‑cause that is sacred, because that is secret, because that has turned left and not right at our ivory door and i can take my cues from the memory of a moonlit night with trees.

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number Two

ner and the moon has risen and i stagger‑step down the sidewalk and the wind has risen and there's the small ivory rectangle that is our door that is made of sea‑dragons, that is, the thing that guards us from everything that we do not wish to see or to talk about, and there's the beach beyond the ivory, itself of ivory and the moon of ivory and the waves of ivory are indeed beating down upon the sand, as if they want to smother it, and the waves are indeed beat‑ing down upon the sand, as if they want to smother it and the moon and i are stagger‑stepping up the steps and the waves are indeed beating down upon the sand, as if they want to smother it, and my capillaries are expanding and contracting with each step towards the leering yellow rectangle (yellow now, oh, yellow now? well now i see, i see that these years have been about now i see that) and my fingers stretch out the waves are indeed beating down upon the sand, as if they want to smother it out in front of me across diagonally and grasp themselves around the door knob and i can feel my capillaries expanding and contracting and the waves are indeed beating down upon the sand, as if they want to smother it and the moon and i are stagger‑stepping and my fingers are reach‑ing across the blackness and my fingers are grasping through the blackness and my weight is grasping through the blackness and then to solid earth.

do you remember he says in the depths of my ear which stir the tiny hairs of my cochlea so delicately, with such grace do you re‑member the night we met? it was warm, except for the wind, and my shirt was thin. you offered me your sweater, remember? on the beach? and the waves were softly lapping, like they knew that something was coming, that out there on the ocean were stirring the beginnings of a hurricane and there was a sort of weird tension in the waves remember and it was too warm with the sweater so i asked you to hold my chest to your chest then it was too cold for you to hold me without the sweater and so i put it back on again and then it was too warm with the sweater and so i took it back off again and then it was too cold so i put it back on again and about three times like that before you stopped me and grabbed my arm

– ha! it was silly, i know, when i wouldn't stop squirming, like the air was infected and it was all over my skin. and it was too warm and then too cold and then too warm, remember? and so then you yes i remember please took the sweater from me and yes yes i know just please don't you laid it on the ground and we lay there together. we were out of the wind, see, so it was just the right temperature. the waves were crashing in, remember? and i remember please not right now please just wait until it was a little cloudy but still a nice night overall and

then this moment has turned into another moment and it's gone, and it's passed. the rays are no longer diagonal but refract them‑selves up over the bowl of the earth so that the light is passing through everything twice. it's all shadows now, just forms, and no things at all but just shadows.

There's a slight breeze tonight, rocking the tops of trees along the broad paved road that leads back to the house (our our our house my arteries echo house house) and my steps fall inadvertantly into the rhythm of pulsing that comes from the sea, one step for every five beats, not quite enough to be regular, not quite the moon and i stagger‑step down the sidewalk, her whispering through the trees through the things that were once trees. it's almost a foxtrot now and the wind has risen. i'm sure the waves are crashing down onto the beach now i can almost hear it from here around the next cor‑

Name: . . . John M. Cusick

Rank: . . Fleet Admiral (Ret.)

Last Command: . h.m.s. Indestructable

Story: . . . . . Anmíng

Had for Breakfast: . . Diet Shake

P word that describes you: . . . Peripatetic

Have You Ever Eaten a Crawfish?

"No."

Name: . . Sarah H. Elmaleh

Rank: . .Lieutenant Commander

Current Command: . . . h.m.s. Infuriate

Stories: . . . . Sophie, Bed

Lives For: . . Pie, Especially Apple

P word that describes you: . . . Panglossian


"No."

Name: . . .Aaron S. Reuben

Rank: . . . . . Captain

Current Command: . .h.m.s. Indomitable

Poem: . Winter in the City of Bones

Had for Breakfast: . A Sip of John's Diet Shake

P word that describes you: . . . . Pallid


"Many times, sucked out of their shell."

Name:. . . . W. Gavin Robb

Rank: . . . . .Rear Admiral

Previous Command: . . . h.m.s. Indubitable

Exercises: . . . Excessive Wit, Poor Judgement

Is Sorely Lacking: . Acceptable Wit, A Current Command

P word that describes you: . . . Palingenetic

Have You Ever Punched a Shark in the Face?

"Yes."

contributing members (alphabetically)

Number Two was set in Nadia Serif, a wonderfully weighted slab-serif. The running headers are set in Frutiger Light Condensed (Small Caps). Story titles are set in Myriad Std (Tilt). The cover and frontispiece are set in COCK and Old Newspaper Types, and are adorned with Wood Type Ornaments std. The drop caps are of in a variety of decorative typefaces. Number Two was set by W. Gavin Robb.

The photograph backing the table of contents is of a 1933/34 Royal Portable Typewriter, upon which various pieces were written.

Photographs of contributing members were taken from members' respective active duty files, and may not be reproduced without permission of the Royal Navy.

Hippónax was expelled from Éphesos around 540 bce by the tyrant Athenagoras, and took refuge in Clazomenæ. His deformed figure and malicious disposition exposed him to the caricature of the Chian sculptors Boúpalos and Athenis, upon whom he revenged himself by issuing against them a series of satires. Pliny writes,

Hipponax was remarkable for the ugliness of his face, for which reason they ex-posed his portrait in wanton mockery to jesting crowds, until Hipponax in indigna-tion turned the weapons of his bitterest satire against them with such effect that some believe he drove them to hang themselves.

The evidence for the date of Hippónax is conflicting, but his chief time of activity would seem to fall in the first half of the sixth century, for it is striking that he never mentions the great Persian invasion, which began shortly after 550. [His] fragments are numerous, but very short, and present no continuity; what there is shows bold use of colloquialisms, a caustic humor, and the ear of a master.

– Prof. Richard Lattimore, Greek Lyrics

contributing members (con't)

Name: . . Rachel S. Shopper

Rank: . . . . Vice Admiral

Current Command: . . h.m.s. Indefatigable

Power Animal: Long-Tongued Fruit Bat

Is Bad At: . . . . Calculus

Guilty Pleasure: . Internet Personality Quizzes

Have You Ever Eaten a Spider?

"Oh God I don't know"

Name: Evan M. Simko-Bednarski

Rank: . . . . Commander

Previous Command: . . h.m.s. Inexorable

Story: . . . Good Behavior

Agility: . . . . . +10

Alibi: . . . . Busy Drinking

Have You Ever Eaten a Library Card?

"Yes."

•MMVIII

The Hudson Valley Naturalist Society

i can hit with both my hands

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