this issue’s contributors:

Larry Blazek
Ora Wilbert Eads
Jack Harrison
Janet Kuypers
Lyn Lifshin
Edward MyCue
Lisa Newkirk
Effie Schoenfeld
Cheryl Townsend
flower drawings by Eugene Peppers

quantum mechanics, by Ellie Schoenfeld

assures that the turning
of my head is intimately connected to
the lighting of your cigarette. Nothing happens
alone or isolated and the wildness in the wave
of my hair is the same
as the lake when the vault around my perception cracks
enough to make the connection.
The knowledge of each thing contained
in everything else so when I look
at this daffodil it might well be
a face in China same as the twisted branch
reaching like an old woman to the moon.
A wild old woman dancing crazy circles
on the beach, waves of her hair
pounding on her back.

Memory’s Vicarious Squint, by Edward MyCue

Dew-drop, the itch once again
(where the hair had been, where
the amputated little finger was)
since like the distant grief taste
reduced to one small picture frame
hailed and farewelled to enjambment
like encrusted gorst/frosttesqueries
and a cry rose in a scrimmage for
the price of a kiss of blood claret
because false promises have talons.
I have gone within for my oats, for
promises and a spear - a dream. I
had a dream of glass of glass and of
pins and I took one like I’d take a
tenner to pay for dinner: OO my
God ... in heaven’s name!” TURN THE
LIGHTS OFF, TURN THE LIGHTS OFF. My
gamut’s run, my snarl gone limpid,
my obsessions and compulsions squinny
back at me i nthe broken mirror “behavior”.
My memory of me is a madness of earwigs
running 25 errands in all directions.
Talk soon gets together under a mask
that has become as real as a built face.
So why would I look at my face for a clue.
My past is a dead mouth choked in hope.

“the muse, the messiah”, by Janet Kuypers

I
I can see you now
hunched over, pouring yourself into
your work, scattered papers,
dim lights flooding
white over the glaring screen, in
your otherwise
darkened corner of the
world. And I know you can feel me
now, feel me rushing in
through the window
that you leave only slightly open
at night,
rushing in with a faint
whistle, circling around your neck, curling
up around your
jaw, opening your mouth
so slightly. You can feel my rush
chilling your teeth.
You tilt your head
back, closing your tired eyes
from your problems,
from your future in front
of you, on those pages, on that screen,
under that white
light. You let me open your
mouth more and more, you feel me
swirling around your tongue,
down your throat, into
your lungs, like smoke from a clove
cigarette when you hold
your breath to feel
the high, feel the ecstacy just a little
longer, or like steam rushing
down your throat when you
take a deep breath the summer morning
after a heavy fog.
You open your eyes.
You lick your lips. I make you
do that, I make you
forget your world. You can
feel me there, you can’t escape me. I’m
there. I’m your muse.
II
And I’m sitting in my
apartment, and when I reach out my arm
shadows of my hand
stretch across the wall.
There is no music, but I begin to
move my hands, like
a ceremony, as if to
a drummed out rhythm, like the pant
of a mistress as she
walks down the hotel steps
into her car after seeing her savior, like waves at
the sea slowly crashing
at the shoreline.
The phases of the moon are changing,
and the waves are crashing
with more and more
intensity, with more and more
power, faster and
faster. And at this very
moment you walk down a street
somewhere, it is daylight,
and you see the white moon
peering toward you from the sky. The
moon was looking
for you. It wanted to
watch you. You divert your eyes,
step off the curb,
and for no reason walk
in the middle of the street. There is no traffic.
You are safe. And
the moon watches the stride
of your step, and the moon watches my hand,
and the moon hears
the rhythmic pant of
intensity, and the moon rises the water.
We feel the drumming beat.
The phases of the
moon are changing. There is no reason why
you should question this.
You can feel me. I
will keep you safe. I will keep you
alive. I’m your messiah.

The Serpents and the King of Cats, by Larry Blaczek

I walk down the sun-bright hill into the field, but not all is as it was. There are poisonous serpents there and I am wearing only shorts and sand
als, no defense against their fangs.
On this day there is not shy water moccasin or copperhead, as willing to avoid me as I am them, but countless, writhing multitudes of multi-hued serpents, fangs dripping venom.
I attempt to fight my way back home with a stick; cats come to my rescue, not just the two I keep, but waves of hissing, spitting, ferocious felines, destroying serpents, some with human faces, many perishing in the process. At last I return. I feed the cats some milk.

we have to write mother’s obit tonight, by lyn lifshin

my sister says,
it will be easier
on a night like
this when pain
killers let her
eat. In the
chaos when it
happens we’ll
be crazed, in
shock, tho we’re
prepared. But
tonight after
the first meal
she’s had seconds
of salmon, potatoes,
asparagus we can
do it calmly
as if we won’t
need it for
a long time

“coquinas”, by Janet Kuypers

1
I can’t imagine
the number of times
I’ve been there
visiting Florida,
Christmas with my parents
a plastic tree
decorated
with sand dollars
and red
ribbons
eating Christmas dinner
listening to Johnny Mathis
and after the Irish coffee,
father with his brandy snifter
in hand
mother and the other
girls
putting away the dishes
the carolers would come,
walking in front of our home
singing “We wish you a
merry Christmas”
over and over again
we would walk outside
and the cool breeze
almost felt like Christmas
after the hot
humid days
and we would stand on our driveway
smile and nod
you could see down the road
all the candles in
paper bags
lining the street
and for a few lights
the bag
burned

2
and we would take
boat rides
off the coast
my parents and their friends
to a tiny island
dad drinking beer
sometimes steering the boat
control
the women sitting together in the shade
worrying about their hair
i would sit at the front
sunglasses, swimsuit and sunburn
feeling the wind
slapping me
in the face
and turning my head away from the boat
into the wind
away from them
to face it again
docking at a shoreline
everyone jumping out
little bags in their hands
the women go looking for shells
the men go barbecue
after an hour or two
the sandwiches, potato chips eaten
the soda and beer almost
gone
we turn around
and head back
we have conquered

3
and I remember
the coquinas
the little shells
you could find them alive
on the beaches north of the pier in
Naples
going to the beach
I would look for a spot
to find them
they were all my own
they burrowed their way into the
sand
to avoid the light
worming their way away from me
I unearthed a group of cocquinas once,
fascinated with their color of
their shells, the way
they moved
before they could hide
I collected them
in a jar,
took them home with me
what did you teach me
what have you taught me to do
is this it
is this what it has become
is this what has become of me
of you of us
and I took them home
I added salt water and sand
but I couldn’t feed them
I realized soon that they
would die
so I let them

boneward, by Ellie Schoenfeld

It’s been six years
since i was in Tuscany
with Livia and Domitilla
and all the wild boars
we could trap and radio collar.
In that March eighth
the neighbor brought armfuls
of bright yellow flowers
for International Women’s Day.
Livia and Domi went out
while i stayed behind,
divided my day between
chopping wood
and the basement full
of wild boar skulls soaking
in chemicals which soften
the remaining flesh
so it can be scraped away.
It was slow work
and I am still doing it,
scraping down to the bones,
assessing what’s left,
trying to keep warm.

sweet dry touch of creamy pink sundown, by Edward MyCue

Routine radiating prosperity bank red-lettered
like the family Bible spilling out with photos,
pressed flowers and the four-leaf and the one
six-leaf clover Richard Steger found in Cotati.
Those Steger kids had no eating disorders, and
were keen, keen for bouillabaisse, creme broule,
devilled eggs, shit-on-a-shingle, anything “-capers”
and those little potato dumplings called “gnoche”
served with pesto sauce and a nice crablegmeat-Louie.
Their mother - Irene’s mom, Louise, was a meyter/Tron
born in a summer mös in the last century (19th)
on the ragged Swiss-French-Italian border, also Piedmontese.
She married a Perrou, an Italian, also Piedmontese.
A Waldensian, Louise was sent to Protestant Marseilles
to a finishing school. Then she came to the United States.
Irene was her only who lived to raise. John
Perrou married again and again. Irene favors pink hues.

i can’t show my mother my new book, by lyn lifshin

my nine year
in the making
new baby when
I did Ariadne’s
Thread my mother
read the manuscript
with me in the
only cool green and
fern
covered room
downstairs where
I lay for hours
with apricot sours
for pain, my back
throbbing. When
it came out she was
as happy as if it
was a child, except
for the four letter
words she’d have
crossed out, sure
sometimes I’d meet
a man I wanted and
he’d be shocked
at what I did as
glazed trees were
wild and as glistening
these confidences of
others must have
been spread on the
bed in “her” room in
my house but I did
not count on her
approval as much am
not even sure what
she read. I can’t
show her the book
with the first piece
about the mother dying
preparations for the
grave with my
mother, now, rarely
getting dressed or
moving a few yards
from her bed. Only a
few years ago she’d
ferret out poems
stuck in or under
boxes until she
could snarl at me,
was that what I
really felt?” Now
she doesn’t come
upstairs, sleeps
between pain pills,
eats so little. Even
if this book was a
baby she might
ask its name,
never want to
hold it

egg nogs, by lyn lifshin

when she was 5
my sister needed
them, skinny
and blond to
keep up her
weight, lured
with chocolate
and coffee,
strawberry
flavors. Glass
straws with
clowns, a mug
of Howdy Doody,
Just one more
sip my mother
wooed while
I slunk into
the back ground,
my fat thighs
under a too
long for a
girl of 9’s
dress, ate
m and m’s
in the cove
of the brown
chair, lost
in a book
or a dream
where I’d be
popular, blonde
and skinny,
any unbeaten
egg string was
slime, horrid
as the centipedes
offensive as seeing
“Kike” on a black
board or hearing
“fattie” whispered
and my mother
would take new
eggs out,
start again. At
my sister’s now,
my mother who has
gone from 120 to 114
to 90 pounds has
Carnation shakes
with Hagendaaz
ice cream mixed
in tho my sister’s
husband says its
so expensive. I
shake in another
state the same
weight as my
mother tho 5
inches taller,
my dark mahogany
hair bleached to
sun in a house
with no corckpots,
mostly oranges,
coffee beans.
I think I picked
one without a
real kitchen.
I’ve never made
chicken soup,
the idea of
cooking is like
a dog paddling
across the Pacific
for the east coast
but becoming a
woman who looks
good in mini skirts
the second time
around
and this
week gets love
letters from
Hono lulu
Maui, Laguna
Beach and San
Diego making me
know I’m some
thing of a wizard
a witch as I make
a list: celery,
carrots, chicken
even gingeroot
for a charm,
wanting to do
yet knowing it
will never be
enough

Kaleidoscope, by Ora Wilbert Eads

If people are hungry
Anywhere in America,
It is clearly their fault
According to right wing radicals;
No rational person
In the fifty states
Accepts such hogwash;
For it is morally obnoxious;
Conscious demands refutation
Of bias so blatant:
Most beneficiaries of food stamps
Are dependent children.

front page, by Larry Blazek

cold and damp
is the night
a drunken man
kills himself
maiming others
an idiotic game
of chicken
with a parked car
I smell blood
whiskey and vomit

avitar of despair, by Larry Blaczek

Have you ever stood at the edge of a roof
and wonder how it must feel to fall
did you ever stand upon a gallows
and never finish feeling it all
I am Despair
I bring you heartache
I feed you bitter wine
I feel sorrow
when I feel desire
your life is better without mine
I walk in darkness
I dare the lightning
I am terrible to behold
my eyes are empty
and my heart is cold
you’ll never melt
my heart with teardrops
those that die young
will never grow old

Mosquito, by Lisa Newkirk

It was the strangest place for a mosquito bite. The skin around the lower-half of her middle finger was swelling rapidly - a white, weirdly shaped bubble was forming and fingers of its own were sliding up hers, on blood vessels leading to the heart. A mosquito had deposited its poison there. She hadn’t even felt it. Hadn’t even heard it. Hadn’t even seen it. It was an absolutely invisible soldier, it was a task well done. The urge to itch was unbearable. She knew the best thing to do was leave the affected area alone and just ignore it. But how could she? Every minute, a searing feeling in her finger taunted her, shooting up her arm and into the surrounding fingers, making those unbearable too. She wanted to madly scratch the whole hand. She wanted to just scratch and scratch and scratch until it didn’t hurt anymore. the itch spoke to her ... if she would only scratch it a little, it promised to stop bothering her. But she knew from experience the itch lied - it would never go away. Scratching would only make the itch stronger, and the finger would swell up to “New, Enormous” size. So instead she held the entire arm up, trying to staunch the blood flow to her middle finger. The finger hung ... upright in the air, singled out from the rest in a salute to the mosquito. She tried to imagine how the mosquito had bitten her there. The finger had lain hand down on the arm rest of the kitchen chair, held together against all the other fingers. The space was too compact to be maneuverable for a mosquito. How unfair! There wasn’t even that much blood in a finger. What could the mosquito have been thinking anyway? This was so unfair. She wasn’t even outside when this happened. She was sitting inside at the kitchen table, waiting for the mahi mahi to be grilled and dinner to be served while she watched some stupid nature special about Australia’s native animals and their mating rituals on public television. In all likelihood the mosquito had slipped in while someone opened the porch door in the kitchen to take the fish out to the grill. And now, as she tried to hunt down the unwanted insect, there was absolutely no sign of it. It wasn’t in the usual dark areas, like under the tables or in the dark corners of the ceiling. There was no noise, no wavering flight of black that would give it away. Irritation, anxiety, she wanted to find it so it couldn’t bite her again. It had committed the perfect crime. Not even a chance for a few fair swats. If it weren’t for being bitten, she wouldn’t have known that a mosquito had been there at all. And so she sat, her arm tiring from holding itself upright, the finger still swelling and the itch still begging.

Tribute to JH, by Larry Blazek

A flaming meteor struck the earth
everyone saw, everyone saw
it made a great sound
they were in awe, they were in awe

My First Marriage, by Cheryl A. Townsend

punched me with
his fist
forgave me with
his cock
& life went on
that way

how you looked then, by Janet Kuypers

I take snapshots of these things in my mind. I rifle through them.
I never told you that I loved to watch you in the bathroom, getting ready to go out. It would usually be after you shaved, or even after you dressed, when you were almost ready to go but had to fix your hair. And oyu’d look in the mirror,and you’d be brushing the sides of your head with your curved fingertips, and you’d be scrutinizing yourself, eyes just slightly squinted. I always thought you looked most handsome when you did that with your eyes, squinted like that, like you were looking for something, searching.
When I’d see you in the bathroom mirrir like that, I’d usually wrap myself around your arm, lean my head on your shoulder, and just stare. I don’t think you ever noticed how I’d look at you at those time. Like you were my mentor. My savior.
Or when we were at that restaurant and you were sitting across from me, wearing the denim button-down shirt I bought you, and you were eating, and you were slouched over your plate, elbows on the table, and you were just eating, not paying attention to much else around you. And you hadn’t shaved in a few days, and the copper-colored stubble was every once in a while catching the light. And in between bites you kept combing your hair back with your fingers, because it kept falling while you ate.
While you were eating, I just had to stop, lean back, and stare at you for a while. I don’t know why, but I’ll never forget how you looked then.

The Orange, by Lisa Newkirk

Smack; Smack; Smack;
went the orange
(left over from unfinished lunch)
her left hand became the baseball glove
and
her incredibly adept right hand grabbed the orange
and threw it back again
and again
and smack, smack, smack,
it went
into the left hand.
this continued while she was supposed to be working,
writing on
the office’s typewriter
(a typewriter! could you believe?
what happened to a chicken in every pot,
and a computer in every office?)
smack, smack, smack.
Then she played a new game:
tossing the orange high up into the air
but not so high as to knock loos the styrofoam ceiling panels above
(the orange was dizzy to be so high)
it’s ascent curved from an arc to a boomerang loop straight down
to outstretched hands;
the secretary across the way was, if she looked up,
in full view of this scene,
since the door was always open (company policy)
but the secretary never saw the happy orange
flying, flying, flying.
Once it hit the desk and rolled off onto the floor
(the right hand was not always so adept)
then she had to retrieve it;
after a few minutes of embarassed silence
and a silent lecture on what she was there to really do,
the orange sat,
as best as an orange could sit
on the flat surface of a desk.
Then she wrote.
She picked up the orange to get a paper beneath it,
because she needed it for typing.
She moved the orange,
because it was in the way of the big, pink eraser.
Then she started rolling the orange around on the desk,
slowly at first,
sbsentmindedly...
then really, really fast,
as fast as she could between both hands.
hen she juggled it between a box of paper clips
and a b
ottle of white-out -
the orange was generally having a good time.
And then she decided to eat it.

Heartbeats, by Jack Harrison

Four children scamper around in the twilight, shouting and squealing, grabbing at fireflies in the air. The few that are caught are deposited in a quart glass jar with a screw-on metal lid. The halfdozen small holes in the lid were produced by an ice pick wielded by an obliging mother.
A Golden Retriever, tired from scurrying to and fro, sprawls on the grass. A grey cat peeks from under a bush at the corner of the house. The dog is looking the other way, so the at darts across the corner of the yard and through a small gap in a hedge that maks the boundary of the neighboring yard.
The remnants of a Kool-Aid stand - a card table, two folding chairs, some paper cups, and a plastic pitcher - rest abandoned on the sidewalk near the street. Tossed aside on the grass near the hedge are a plastic bat and ball and two small ballgloves of imitation leather.
An elderly man and woman strolling by stop and speak to the children, who greet them quickly, then dash off. Locusts buzz in the oak trees. Occasionally a car rumbles slowly down the brick street. Lights blink on in two nearby houses. Three teenagers on bicycles whiz by.
Moths flutter silently around the porch light. Buzzing June bugs careen through the air and bump noiseily against the screen door. A man walks out of the house, takes several envelopes out of the mailbox on the porch, sits down in a lawn chair and puts his feet up on the porch railing.
One of the children shouts to the man and runs up onto the porch to display the jar of tiny, blinking lights. As the child returns to the yard, the man smiles and leans back in his chair. He shuffles through the mail in his hand, tears open one envelope and reads the letter inside, with some difficulty because of the dim light.
“I thought you’d like to know,” his sister has written, “that Jim Blaylock passed away yesterday. He had a heart attack while he was mowing the yard. He was just forty-two. A year older than you, I guess.”
The man drops the letter in his lap and stares out across the yard, across the street - to another yard in another time. He remembers Jimmy, the skinny, always grinning, red-headed neighbor kid, often eager to catch lightning bugs and look for locust shells and play ball in the front yard on warm June evenings. The man shivers, as if a chill has passed through his body.
“Come on, you kids,” he calls out. “It’s gettin’ dark. Time to go in and start taking your baths.” After some protesting, two of the chidren trudge up onto the porch and the other two head down the street. The man helps one child untie a knot in a shoelace, then suddenly hugs the child tightly.
The man can feel the quick, steady beat of the small heart in the child’s body, and senses that it is somehow in sync with the slower beat of his own. He fights off a feeling of panic and vows silently that he will not lie awake at night wondering how strong or how fragile both those hearts might be.

bi-o-gra-phies

Larry Blazek, who has yet to be saved from the depths if Indiana, is boasting the publication of a new chapbooks (as if cc&d wasn’t enough). “Composite Dreams” is available for 6 stamps, and he’s looking for submissions for “Opossum Holler Tarot”, available for 4 stamps. Contact cc&d for more information.
And I quote from a letter from Ora Wilbert Eads: “I am a man 79 years old. I’m legally blind in one eye and totally blind in the other. I didn’t submit any material to a lterary periodical until 1990 was well under way. I’ve been quite fortunate. Various literary periodials in Canada and throughout the United States have published 1610 of my poems.”
Jack Harrison’s past is fuzzy, so we’ll tell basics: he’s a prose writer from Virginia. He will also be appearing in volume four of cc&d.
Janet Kuypers has had over 55 written pieces and over 55 visuals published in her 13 year career, and is currently the production manager for a publishing company in Chicago. She has published the book “Hope Chest in the Attic”, and is currently working with Cheryl Townsend on a chapbook on art and writing about acquaintance rape called “gasoline and reason.”
Lyn Lifshin resides in Washington D.C. and has appeared in very issude of cc&d Lifshin & Schornfeld also have been published in the book “Mondo Barbie” (I started reading it). Very impressive work indeed.
This is the second time work by Edward MyCue has appeared in cc&d. Hopefully we will continue to see his work here.
Lisa Newkirk is a Journalism graduate from the U of I, and lives outside of Chicago. This is the first time cc&d has seen her work. She’s also looking for a good reporting job, so if anyone has any leads, write us.
Eugene Peppers designed the scientific drawings of the flowers that appeared throughout this issue. A recent graduate from the University of Illinois in Champaign/Urbana, his studies focused on plant biology and ornamental horticulture.
Ellie Schoenfeld, who has had work appear in the book “Mondo Barbie” (with Lifshin), is from Minnesota. Underground rumors also tell me she’s a spy originally from Lithuania, but I can’t confirm these reports.
Cheryl Townsend, seductress extraordinaire, is the editor of Impetus and has had scads of chapbooks printed. Ohio never produced a better writer, entrepreneur or sexual feminist (if you can believe it).

Nick DiSpoldo, Small Press Review (on “Children, Churches and Daddies,” April 1997) Kuypers is the widely-published poet of particular perspectives and not a little existential rage, but she does not impose her personal or artistic agenda on her magazine. CC+D is a provocative potpourri of news stories, poetry, humor, art and the “dirty underwear” of politics. One piece in this issue is “Crazy,” an interview Kuypers conducted with “Madeline,” a murderess who was found insane, and is confined to West Virginia’s Arronsville Correctional Center. Madeline, whose elevator definitely doesn’t go to the top, killed her boyfriend during sex with an ice pick and a chef’s knife, far surpassing the butchery of Elena Bobbitt. Madeline, herself covered with blood, sat beside her lover’s remains for three days, talking to herself, and that is how the police found her. For effect, Kuypers publishes Madeline’s monologue in different-sized type, and the result is something between a sense of Dali’s surrealism and Kafka-like craziness.

Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada
I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer’s styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere.

Ed Hamilton, writer #85 (of Children, Churches and Daddies) turned out well. I really enjoyed the humor section, especially the test score answers. And, the cup-holder story is hilarious. I’m not a big fan of poetry - since much of it is so hard to decipher - but I was impressed by the work here, which tends toward the straightforward and unpretentious. As for the fiction, the piece by Anderson is quite perceptive: I liked the way the self-deluding situation of the character is gradually, subtly revealed. (Kuypers’) story is good too: the way it switches narrative perspective via the letter device is a nice touch.

Children, Churches and Daddies.
It speaks for itself.
Write to Scars Publications to submit poetry, prose and artwork to Children, Churches and Daddies literary magazine, or to inquire about having your own chapbook, and maybe a few reviews like these.

Jim Maddocks, GLASGOW, via the Internet I’ll be totally honest, of the material in Issue (either 83 or 86 of Children, Churches and Daddies) the only ones I really took to were Kuypers’. TRYING was so simple but most truths are, aren’t they?

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C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review (on Children, Churches and Daddies) CC&D is obviously a labor of love ... I just have to smile when I go through it. (Janet Kuypers) uses her space and her poets to best effect, and the illos attest to her skill as a graphic artist. I really like (“Writing Your Name”). It’s one of those kind of things where your eye isn’t exactly pulled along, but falls effortlessly down the poem. I liked “knowledge” for its mix of disgust and acceptance. Janet Kuypers does good little movies, by which I mean her stuff provokes moving imagery for me. Color, no dialogue; the voice of the poem is the narrator over the film.

Children, Churches and Daddies no longer distributes free contributor’s copies of issues. In order to receive issues of Children, Churches and Daddies, contact Janet Kuypers at the cc&d e-mail addres. Free electronic subscriptions are available via email. All you need to do is email ccandd@scars.tv... and ask to be added to the free cc+d electronic subscription mailing list. And you can still see issues every month at the Children, Churches and Daddies website, located at http://scars.tv

Mark Blickley, writer The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.

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MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)

functions:
* To show the MIT Food Service that there is a large community of vegetarians at MIT (and other health-conscious people) whom they are alienating with current menus, and to give positive suggestions for change.
* To exchange recipes and names of Boston area veg restaurants
* To provide a resource to people seeking communal vegetarian cooking
* To provide an option for vegetarian freshmen

We also have a discussion group for all issues related to vegetarianism, which currently has about 150 members, many of whom are outside the Boston area. The group is focusing more toward outreach and evolving from what it has been in years past. We welcome new members, as well as the opportunity to inform people about the benefits of vegetarianism, to our health, the environment, animal welfare, and a variety of other issues.

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Gary, Editor, The Road Out of Town (on the Children, Churches and Daddies Web Site) I just checked out the site. It looks great.

Dusty Dog Reviews: These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding.

John Sweet, writer (on chapbook designs) Visuals were awesome. They’ve got a nice enigmatic quality to them. Front cover reminds me of the Roman sculptures of angels from way back when. Loved the staggered tire lettering, too. Way cool. (on “Hope Chest in the Attic”) Some excellent writing in “Hope Chest in the Attic.” I thought “Children, Churches and Daddies” and “The Room of the Rape” were particularly powerful pieces.

C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review: CC&D is obviously a labor of love ... I just have to smile when I go through it. (Janet Kuypers) uses her space and her poets to best effect, and the illos attest to her skill as a graphic artist.

Cheryl Townsend, Editor, Impetus (on Children, Churches and Daddies) The new CC&D looks absolutely amazing. It’s a wonderful lay-out, looks really professional - all you need is the glossy pages. Truly impressive AND the calendar, too. Can’t wait to actually start reading all the stuff inside.. Wanted to just say, it looks good so far!!!

Dusty Dog Reviews: She opens with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page.

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Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA
Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.

Mark Blickley, writer
The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.

Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book or chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers. We’re only an e-mail away. Write to us.

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Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) I passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable.

The Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology
The Solar Energy Research & Education Foundation (SEREF), a non-profit organization based in Washington, D.C., established on Earth Day 1993 the Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology (CREST) as its central project. CREST’s three principal projects are to provide:
* on-site training and education workshops on the sustainable development interconnections of energy, economics and environment;
* on-line distance learning/training resources on CREST’s SOLSTICE computer, available from 144 countries through email and the Internet;
* on-disc training and educational resources through the use of interactive multimedia applications on CD-ROM computer discs - showcasing current achievements and future opportunities in sustainable energy development.
The CREST staff also does “on the road” presentations, demonstrations, and workshops showcasing its activities and available resources.
For More Information Please Contact: Deborah Anderson
dja@crest.org or (202) 289-0061

Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) I passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable.

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Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA
“Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family.
“Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.

want a review like this? contact scars about getting your own book published.

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Paul Weinman, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) Wonderful new direction (Children, Churches and Daddies has) taken - great articles, etc. (especially those on AIDS). Great stories - all sorts of hot info!

The magazine Children Churches and Daddies is Copyright © through Scars Publications and Design. The rights of the individual pieces remain with the authors. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Okay, nilla wafer. Listen up and listen good. How to save your life. Submit, or I’ll have to kill you.
Okay, it’s this simple: send me published or unpublished poetry, prose or art work (do not send originals), along with a bio, to us - then sit around and wait... Pretty soon you’ll hear from the happy people at cc&d that says (a) Your work sucks, or (b) This is fancy crap, and we’re gonna print it. It’s that simple!

Okay, butt-munch. Tough guy. This is how to win the editors over.
Hope Chest in the Attic is a 200 page, perfect-bound book of 13 years of poetry, prose and art by Janet Kuypers. It’s a really classy thing, if you know what I mean. We also have a few extra sopies of the 1999 book “Rinse and Repeat”, the 2001 book “Survive and Thrive”, the 2001 books “Torture and Triumph” and “(no so) Warm and Fuzzy”, which all have issues of cc&d crammed into one book. And you can have either one of these things at just five bucks a pop if you just contact us and tell us you saw this ad space. It’s an offer you can’t refuse...

Carlton Press, New York, NY: HOPE CHEST IN THE ATTIC is a collection of well-fashioned, often elegant poems and short prose that deals in many instances, with the most mysterious and awesome of human experiences: love... Janet Kuypers draws from a vast range of experiences and transforms thoughts into lyrical and succinct verse... Recommended as poetic fare that will titillate the palate in its imagery and imaginative creations.
Mark Blickley, writer: The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing the book.

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.
Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book and chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers - you can write for yourself or you can write for an audience. It’s your call...

Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA: “Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family. “Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.

Dusty Dog Reviews, CA (on knife): These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding. Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself.

Dusty Dog Reviews (on Without You): She open with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page.
Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself.

Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada (on Children, Churches and Daddies): I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer’s styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere.
Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA: Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.

Children, Churches and Daddies the unreligious, non-family oriented literary and art magazine Scars Publications and Design ccandd96@scars.tv http://scars.tv Publishers/Designers Of Children, Churches and Daddies magazine cc+d Ezines The Burning mini poem books God Eyes mini poem books The Poetry Wall Calendar The Poetry Box The Poetry Sampler Mom’s Favorite Vase Newsletters Reverberate Music Magazine Down In The Dirt magazine Freedom and Strength Press forum plus assorted chapbooks and books music, poery compact discs live performances of songs and readings Sponsors Of past editions: Poetry Chapbook Contest, Poetry Book Contest Prose Chapbook Contest, Prose Book Contest Poetry Calendar Contest current editions: Editor’s Choice Award (writing and web sites) Collection Volumes Children, Churches and Daddies (founded 1993) has been written and researched by political groups and writers from the United States, Canada, England, India, Italy, Malta, Norway and Turkey. Regular features provide coverage of environmental, political and social issues (via news and philosophy) as well as fiction and poetry, and act as an information and education source. Children, Churches and Daddies is the leading magazine for this combination of information, education and entertainment. Children, Churches and Daddies (ISSN 1068-5154) is published quarterly by Scars Publications and Design. Contact us via e-mail (ccandd96@scars.tv) for subscription rates or prices for annual collection books. To contributors: No racist, sexist or blatantly homophobic material. No originals; if mailed, include SASE & bio. Work sent on disks or through e-mail preferred. Previously published work accepted. Authors always retain rights to their own work. All magazine rights reserved. Reproduction of Children, Churches and Daddies without publisher permission is forbidden. Children, Churches and Daddies copyright through Scars Publications and Design, Children, Churches and Daddies, Janet Kuypers. All rights remain with the authors of the individual pieces. No material may be reprinted without express permission.