This Month’s Contributors:

D. Phillip Caron
Jack Harrison
Debra Purdy Kong
Janet Kuypers
Lyn Lifshin
C Ra McGuirt
Pearl Marl Wilshaw

Editor’s Note

As I start to compile volume four of cc&d, I find myself looking at this publication, and the people that are in it, and smiling. I have met some very talented people: editors of other magazines, established writers as well as people who have never been published before, women and men from their eary twenties to their late seventies.
I started this magazine because I saw a need for it - writers like us, if no one else (is poetry really dead?), enjoy seeing the others’ work. What I never anticipated in doing this magazine is the wonderful responses I have received from the writers. I have received letters of such encouragement, such kindness. I feel I’ve developed actual relationships (even if only through the postal service) with some people out there, because they’ve been considerate to a fellow writer. They’ve told me about their problems, asked for tips, offered their own tips, and showed gratitude and admiration.
This is my way of not only thanking everyone for their encouraging words, but also of letting you know that I admire all of you, too.
Publishing poetry is tough today. You’re all trying, the way I try, and I think that is wonderful. If we support each other the way you have been supporting me, we can accomplish anything we want to. I thank you for your support. And I want you to know that you will always have mine.
Janet Kuypers, Editor

Untitled, by Jack Harrison

what you could make me do, by Janet Kuypers

I
I remember when you and Brad and Joe and I decided to kill a bottle of champagne, Andre pink, two-for-five,on a building top in the December cold.I remember standing at the top of this building with this bottle of cheap champagne in my hand and not caring that it was cold, that I was breaking the law. I was young, and free. And I had friends. We stood in the shape of a triangle and made the person in the center drink. I said they had to spin while they drank,then belch when they were done. Brad and Joe were more than willing; the belching was a contest for them. And I became one of the boys for a night, to become closer to you.You didn’t want to belch, or spin, or really even drink. I didn’t make you. But you did. And I’d like to think that in your heart you did it because you wanted to follow me. I’ve always wanted to tell you that I wanted to follow you, too.
II
I got your watch engraved the day of my Christmas party. I didn’t want to bother with wrapping the thing, besides, I didn’t even have a box for it, so I just wore it. You never knew it was there. When you couldn’t take the suspense any longer, I told you that I had it on me. It must have been quite a sight to see you walking in circles around me, trying to figure out what I was hiding from you. But I wasn’t even hiding it. I was wearing it on my wrist, with my other watch, as plain as day.
III
So I made a full picnic and brought it to an empty theater. And I put on my best black dress, you know, the one that is off the shoulders, the one I wear to make heads turn. I set out the food, played slow music and put the champagne glasses you bought me on the center of the stage floor. When I sat down I was afraid splinters from the hard-wood floor would run my stockings. But I wanted you to see what you could make me do. I didn’t want you to think I was some nobody. And I wanted to see the look on your face when you opened the theater doors.
That night you said that everything was perfect. But it was perfect only when you sat down to join me.

Carl at A-Basin, by Jack Harrison

David, by Janet Kuypers

When I know you’re not going out anywhere in the morning, I get dressed, brew some flavored coffee, put it in a thermos, and bring my book to that hut on the corner of San Lu Rue Avenue.The coffee tastes good when the Florida air is just chilly enough to open your eyes. I sit there, and I write, usually about you, and I wait. I know you’re a late riser, but within a half hour you’re there. Empty mug in one hand, drawing book and pencils in the other. Cigarettes in pocket. You look tired. But I’m awake.
I used to fear for your life, you know, when you were messed up with the drugs, the gangs. I’d sit up nights wondering why you didn’t call. I’d wonder if you were dead. I’d wonder if you were beaten up, bleeding on a subway, trying to hold your ribs in place. It hurt to care from five hundred miles away, for someone who couldn’t care for himself.
I’m glad that you straightened yourself out. Or I’m glad you almost did.
I remember being in your car, driving back from Tiger Tail beach. My skin felt itchy from the salt. My feet were sticking out the window, pressed against the rear-view mirror. I think you were holding my hand.
This was after you told me you wanted me to marry you. You never asked me to marry you, but you told me that’s what you wanted. I should have expected that from you. But you always surprised me.
I remember thinking that we could never get along for any reasonable length of time. You didn’t want to leave Canada; I didn’t want to leave the States. You wanted to backpack around Europe; I wanted to get a job, an apartment, some security. Vacationing at the tip of this peninsula seemed to be the only way we could meet.
But even though my skin hissed from the salt and the sun, in that car with you I felt like we could go anywhere.
I looked in my purse today and found a box of Swan Vestas matches. You bought them at the tobacco shop in the mall in Naples. You asked me to hold the box for you.I couldn’t understand why you bothered to buy matches when you could get matchbooks anywhere, but I must admit that you looked good when you lit one of them. The box was so big. No American would want a matchbox that big. You always struck the match to the box three times before it would light. You made the art of lighting a match seem like a pleasure.
I always liked the smell of sulphur.
I’m glad you forgot that box in my purse.

Saturday Morning, by Jack Harrison

Maria Rodriguez pushed the vaccum cleaner rapidly back and forth over the maroon carpet in the conference room, taking care not to let it touch the stocky legs of the long, massive walnut table or the thin legs of the ornate chairs with needlepoint cushions.
She glanced nervously at the only door to the room. She knew there were a few people in the building on a Saturday morning.
A boy about twelve years old stuck his head in the door and she flipped the switch to turn off the machine. The shrill whine unwound to stillness.
“I’ll take the trash downstairs now, Momma,” the boy said.
“Okay, Willie, that’s fine. I’m almost done in here.”
A few minutes later, she placed the vaccum cleaner in a closet in the outer office and looked up at the clock on the wall. In about an hour her nine-year-old daughter would be arriving home after spending the morning at a friend’s house.
A man walked into the room. He was carrying several folders and some loose papers.
“Maria,” he said, “you had to come in on Saturday, huh?”
“Yes, Mr. Carlson.”
“Those guys sure left a mess. I guess they were here late on the contract.” He walked into a corner office with large windows overlooking the city.
Maria began straightening up the outer office. She scooted chairs into place at several desks. Two file cabinet drawers were open and she pushed them shut. She picked up a pair of shoes near a secretary’s work station and placed them side by side under the desk.
The boy returned. “What should I do now?” he said.
“Help me finish up here,” she said.
The man came out of his office and walked over to a file cabinet.
“Oh, Mr. Carlson,” she said, “I’d like you to meet my son, William.”
The man smiled and stepped toward the boy. “Hi,” he said, shaking the boy’s hand. “William, huh? That’s MY name.”
“Willies’ in the sixth grade,” the woman said. “He’s going to be a lawyer, too.” She smiled proudly.
The man chuckled. “Oh, yeah? Well, that’s just fine. Helping out your mom today, huh?”
“Yes, sir,” the boy said.
The man turned to the woman. “You look great in those jeans, Maria,” he said. He bent over and patted her on the rear end. Grinning, he glanced at the boy, then walked back into his office and sat down.
The woman’s face reddened. She looked at the boy, then quickly away.
“Check over there,” she said, pointing across the hall. Her voice was barely audible. “Make sure we got all the trash.”
The boy walked into the room that the woman had pointed out. It contained two photocopy machines. He kicked the side of one of the machines, then took a deep breath. Several packages of copier paper were scattered on a table. He stacked them in a pile. On the table lay a key ring with six keys on it, which he picked up and put in his pocket.
He thought about a recent night when he had been awakened and found his mother asleep in a chair in the living room, holding in her lap a pair of slacks she had been hemming. That was her other job - doing alterations for a clothing store.
He thought about how embarassed and angry he had been when some kids at school had called him a “wetback” and “greaser.” But it hadn’t happened in several months and he had been hopeful that it wouldn’t again.
He heard his mother call his name and walked out into the hall.
“Mr. Carlson can’t find his keys,” she said. “Would you help me look?
“They wouldn’t be out here,” the man said, sounding angry. “Maybe they’re on my desk.”
He went into his office. The woman and the boy stood near the office door, not sure if they
were supposed to go in.
“Well, hell,” the man said. “I’ll look in the men’s room.”
As he walked out of his office, he said, “That’s the only key to the Mercedes. My wife lost the other one last month.”
The woman and the boy went back to their work and soon finished. As they were putting on their jackets, the man returned.
“I couldn’t find ‘em,” he said, and stalked into his office. The woman and the boy left.
Neither said anything until they had almost reached the end of their bus ride.
“Are you getting paid for working today?” the boy said finally.
“They told me I could probably take some time off later,” she said.
They were both silent for a moment.
“I don’t mind,” she said. “I need the job. We all have to try to get along in the world.”
The boy looked out the window.
On the three-block walk from the bus stop to their apartment building, as they were crossing a bridge over a small stream, the boy slowed his pace and fell a few steps behind the woman. He took the keys out of his pocket and tossed them into the water. The woman didn’t notice.
The boy ran to catch up and took hold of her hand. He felt a little better, but not much. He wanted to say something, but he wasn’t sure what it should be. So he just squeezed her hand and walked along beside her.

Hearing the News, By Lyn Lifshin

he was one of
God’s greatest
creatures some
one says another says a
noticable serenity
in the past year
as he grew thinner
more deliberation
his movements he
seemed almost spiritual
there’s a custom
in Judaism
that when they take
the holy book from
the ark, carry it
around you touch
it with your
prayer shawl
then kiss the fringes
of the shawl. I confess
when Ashe walked by
he says I was
sometimes
tempted to reach
out and touch
his hand or
clothing as
if he were holy

Negative Perspiration, by C Ra McGuirt

the man on the
tv commercial
declares:
“when a woman
sweats,
she’s just,
not,
YOU know,
SEXY...”
this man
(and i use
the term
loosely)
has obviously
never
MADE
a woman sweat.

Janelle, by Lyn Lifshin

she’s been missing
five years snatched
we’re sure from the
house near Christmas
Janelle was at a
concert my wife
flying to LA to
surprise her sick
father the other
daughter had a
basketball game
there was a note
from a teacher
asking me to sub
the next day in
Hanelle’s hand
writing but when
I got back, no
thing she didn’t
run away wearing
my slippers she
was in her singing
outfit her shoes
and panty hose
were on the couch
she wouldn’t have
left - she was
12 - in her mama’s
slippers she’s
wearing my slippers
she’s not running

Cricket Wish Me Luck, by C Ra McGuirt

i’m sorry
that you’re asleep,
because i want you.
i’m glad
that you’re asleep,
so i can write
about the ways
that i want you.
i want you
as you were tonight
in your nightgown
with your hair down
Holy Mother Russia
a girl again
frightened by a cricket
in the bathroom
you had never seen a cricket in the light,
just as you hadn’t
seen fireflies
in the dark
before we walked the park
as summer waned.
now spring has come,
and I explained
that crickets on the hearth
are lucky here.
you chose to believe me,
just as i choose to believe
that it’s bad luck for me to leave
my car keys on the table,
or whistle in the house
because it’s bad luck
where you come from.
i love you as you lie asleep
in ways i still don’t understand.

Knowledge, by Janet Kuypers

I hated going into these Goddamn gas stations in the middle of nowhere, but we’d been driving for so damn long that I think I lost all feeling in my ass. Besides, I had to go to the bathroom. It couldn’t wait. He said he’d pump the gas this time, so I got out of the car and began to stretch when I saw the attendant staring at me through the window from behind the counter. It was an eerie stare. A sex stare. I stopped stretching.
I walked around the side of the building, where the dingy arrows pointed to the washrooms. I really didn’t need the signs, for the smell of shit that has been sitting around overpowered the smell of the dust in the air as I walked closer and closer to the bathrooms ... I walked past the men’s room and up to the ladies room to find that the door was... gone. It was propped up on the inside of the bathroom wall. “A lot of fucking good it does me there,” I mumbled in the stench.
“How the Hell am I supposed to go to the bathroom when there isn’t even a God damned door to the damn bathroom??” I thought as I stormed into the store where he was paying for the gas.
He was buying two bottles of Pepsi for the road, to keep us awake. “The door of the women’s washroom is off,” I whispered with exasperation. “Well, that’s no problem, honey - just go into the men’s room. I’ll watch the door for you,” he said back. The look in his eyes told me
that he thought it was such a simple and obvious solution that anyone could figure it out. He thought he had the solution for everything. I wanted to tell him that the women’s room frightened me enough for one day, and that I didn’t want to risk my life by venturing into the men’s room. Besides, men go in there. That attendant probably goes in there. I finally shrugged and waited for him to pay for his Pepsi and gasoline. I turned my head and followed him out. The attendant looked at me as I left. I could feel his stare burning into the back of my head.
We turned the building corner and followed the signs. My shoulders suddenly felt heavier and heavier as I walked. He checked the room to make sure it was empty for me. He even held the door open. What a gentleman.
I closed the door, but I really didn’t want to be left alone with the smell. It smelled like shit. But I could also smell sweat, like the smell of dirty men. I wondered if this is what the attendant smelled like. I lined the toilet bowl seat with toilet paper. I had to use it sparingly - there wasn’t much left. I got up as soon as I could and walked over to the dirty mirror, almost hitting my head on the hanging light bulb. There was light blue paint chipping next to the mirror.
I strained to see my image in the mirror. Instead, all I could focus on was the graffiti on the wall behind me. For a good time call.. So-and-so gives good head... Did that attendant ever call that number? I wondered if I was ever put on a bathroom wall. I wondered if I was ever reduced to a name and a phone number like that. I probably had been.
The floor was wet. I always wondered when the floors of bathrooms were wet if it was actually urine or just water from the sink. Or maybe it was from the sweat of all those men. I didn’t know.
I stepped on something under the sink in front of the mirror. I looked down. It was an open porn magazine. I looked at it from where I was standing. I didn’t move my foot. It was hard core shit, and it looked painful. Women with gags on their faces... I remember someone telling me that porn was okay because the women in it wanted to do it. But there was no smile on this woman’s face. I pushed it back under the sink.
I stepped back. I wanted to hit something. I wanted to hit the graffiti on the wall, the porn on the floor. I wanted to smear the urine from the stall all over the place. I wanted to pull the light from right out of the fucking ceiling.
I put my hands up against the wall. I put the top of my head on the wall. I tried to breathe. It hurt. With my eyes closed, I knew what was there, behind me. It didn’t scare me anymore.
When I walked into the bathroom, I was afraid to touch anything. But then I just leaned up against the door, feeling the dirt press into my back, into my hair. I wanted to soak it all in. All of it.
I shook my head and realized that he was waiting for me outside the door. I turned around and grabbed the door knob. I didn’t worry about the dirt on my back. I opened the door.

Payday, by D. Phillip Caron

In a pawn shop window
on East Main at sixteenth
there is a class ring
embossed Trojans sixty-nine.
Under it in scroll leaf
a dueling pistol with wooden case
from seventeen hundred France.
I put my television on the counter
and hope fifty is a good number.
There is an emtpy whiskey bottle
by the door
from 1905 Lewisville
with a tag that says sixteen dollars
beside a help wanted sign.
A Twenty-two in my pocket;
small, heavy and shiny
but its hard to go home
empty handed.

Raped, by C Ra McGuirt

I: Not A Good Tuesday
to Las Palmas in a storm, accused
of forcing an open portal.
the sword of the State over my head
for going on three days.
my Life on trial. my Religion.
my penchant for throwing drunk pizza.
my theatrical suicide nonattempts.
my choice to keep a room for God
in the house where she was welcome
before she ran away
for the final time, and i came to know
i had chosen ill
again.
in the Palmas, my place. the rain
now slowed to a drizzle. the storm remains.
my words on paper and through the air
sent her over the precipice.
i couldn’t finish my taco salad.
i might be eating prison food
if her word enjoys belief
in the Office of Prosecution.
i wonder if she truly believes
that i took her against her will.
she might. she once believed
that aliens were after her.
in the Palmas, and nothing to do.
the detective took my statement
and said that she would call
if and when the Powers
decide that i might be
what i despise.
in the Palmas. two pretty women
are sitting at the next table.
i wince and turn my eyes away.
in the Palmas. my third margarita
is empty, and my cigarettes
are gone. i must go home and wait,
my fate in foreign hands.
oral rape is a terrible thing.
i speak as one who knows.
II. Partners
most poets don’t know cops.
most cops have no use for poets.
now i belong at Sex Abuse.
dance with me,
Detective.
III. Breaking Up
the most important
woman
in my life
this
week
called and left
a message
saying (in so many words)
that she wouldn’t
see me again:
“Mr. McGuirt,
this is Detective Donnegan.
that case has been dropped,
so forget it.”
sometimes it’s nice
not to be
wanted.

A Room At The Beach, by Jack Harrison

We laughed when we saw
the room, barely
larger than the bed.
Too little space to stand,
but enough to recline,
to touch, to whisper.
Weary from hours on the sand,
we drowsed beneath the
gently shimmering fan,
in no hurry for the
moment of reaching out,
giving, taking, sharing,
and exploding that elegant
tension, on the bed
that filled the room.

Equal Time, by Pearl Mary Wilshaw

Changing diapers,
Scouring pots,
Doing laundry,
Bathing tots.
Making lunches,
Going shopping,
Washing, ironing,
Scrubbing, mopping.
Carpooling, cooking,
Mending, sewing,
Straightening, cleaning,
Weeding, mowing.
Endless chores
From sun to sun, a
Househusband’s work
Is never done.

Scarcely a Whisper, by Debra Purdy Kong

Adrianna knew she was being followed. She’d noticed the car shortly after she left the schoolyard; a white Datsun with rust on the fenders and a dented driver’s door. Since she baby-sat for half of the families on this street, help was nearby.
The car pulled up beside her. Adrianna glanced at a face surrounded by dark, curly hair and a greying beard. She stopped, then smiled with recognition, until reality swept a warm, cautious flame over her back.
“How are you, sweetheart?” he asked hesitantly.
She stared at her father’s pouchy, anxious eyes. He’d walked out on her mom three years ago, and Adrianna hadn’t seen him since. She and mom had moved into a small apartment, leaving no forwarding address with anyone who’d give it to him. She wondered how he knew which school she went to.
“Can I give you a lift home?” he asked.
Adrianna hugged her schoolbooks. She wasn’t sure she wanted to talk to him; yet, she couldn’t pretend he wasn’t there. “I guess so.”
In the car, she noticed how the wrinkles cut across his forehead and down his face. He was thinner than she remembered.
“How’s school going?”, he asked, his voice suddenly cheerful.
She cleared her throat. “Fine.”
“You must be in grade eleven?”
“Yeah.”
He paused for several seconds. “Are you still studying ballet?”
“I quit last year. Mom couldn’t afford the lessons.” She remembered how he would promise to attend her recitals, then never show up. She supposed he just wanted to make conversation.
“Are you involved with any sports or clubs at school?”
“No, I work at McDonalds. It keeps me busy.”
“Good.” He pushed in the car lighter, then reached for the cigarette tucked behind his ear. “We live in a house about thirty miles from here. A friend gave us a good deal on the rent for looking after his property.”
Adrianna was tempted to ask if he lived with the woman he’d dumped her mother for, or whether this was somebody new. On the other hand, why should she care?
“Do you still have the cats?” he asked, dangling the cigarette from his mouth.
Adrianna gripped her books. “The landlord wouldn’t let us keep them.”
The morning they took their three spoiled, old cats to the animal shelter, she’d hated her father for refusing to pay support. They had to sell the house and most of the furniture.
“We have a menagerie.” Her father reached for the lighter. “Five cats, two dogs, several guinea pigs, and a chicken.”
Adrianna wanted him to ask about mom; she wanted to tell him about the two jobs she worked to make ends meet.
“Do you know what you’ll do after you graduate?”
“Get a job in an office.”
“Sounds like a smart plan,” he replied, then paused. “I’ve been doing some contracting work here and there, but the housing market’s lousy these days.”
Every turn her father made brought them closer to her apartment building. She wouldn’t be surprised if he knew which suite was theirs. He could have had a detective find them. As he pulled into the parking lot Adrianna thought about inviting him inside, just to show them how they lived; but her dad reeked of cigarette smoke and mom would notice the smell when she came home. Besides, a longer visit wouldn’t change anything.
“Thanks for the ride,” she mumbled.
“My pleasure.”
Adrianna saw his anxiety, and something else; pain maybe, or a little guilt. She remembered good times as a child: picnics, amusement parks, and visits to her grandparents. She missed her grandparents so much.
“How are Gram and Gramps?” she asked, hoping to sound casual.
“Just fine. They’d love to talk to you.”
She sent them Christmas cards every year, with no return address, at her mother’s insistence.
Her father jotted down an address and phone number on the back of a Visa receipt, then handed the paper to her. “Keep in touch, okay?”
Adrianna opened the driver’s door; her cheeks burned as she turned to him. “Why did you come here?”
His gaze was solemn. “Be
cause I miss you.” He started to reach for her hand, then stopped. “It was good seeing you again, sweetheart.”
“Bye.” Her voice was scarcely a whisper. She stepped into the cool, soggy leaf smell of autumn.
He backed the car out of the parking spot, then waved. Smiling pensively, Adrianna waved back, then slowly turned around, feeling as if she’d left all her energy in the car. The second she entered the apartment, the tears began to spill. She dropped her schoolbooks on the coffee table, then sat down.
Sometimes, just before drifting off to sleep, she could almost feel her favourite cat jump on her bed, the curl up by her legs. Her father would never know how much she missed her pets. Until his rusted white Datsun drove away, she’d never known how much she missed him too. She tucked the Visa receipt in her pocket.

Biographies

D. Phillip Caron was an Army captain from 1966 to 1985, and has been published in periodicals in Minnesota, California, Tennessee and Virginia. Caron authored “Eagles and Other Prey”, a book of poetry on Viet Nam, which received a Pulitzer nomination. Caron describes himself now as “Just getting older and cranky.”
Jack Harrison lives near Washington D.C., has lived in Kansas, Arkansas, Olkahoma, & Kentucky. He worked as a newspaper editor, a university professor, and now he edits agricultural economics publications for the federal government. Harrison has been published in Potpourri, Metropolitan, Journeys, ESC!, Aberations, Ignus Fatuus, Cynical Beetnik, Lucidity, Pinehurst Journal, and S.L.U.G.fest.
Our fist writer from Canada, Debra Purdy Kong is a criminology graduate. Born in Toronto and Raised in British Columbia, Purdy Kong has been writing since 1980. She has completed two mystery novels and has been published in magazines ion Canada and the United States.
Janet Kuypers, from Chicago, has been published in a number of different magazines, has published scads of her own chapbooks and recently published the 200 page collection book “hope chest in the attic.” She wants everyone to buy a copy.
Lyn Lifshin, Washington D.C., has also had scads of chapbooks published, and her many appearances at cc&d are a teastimonial to that - she has appeared in every issue published so far.
C Ra McGuirt, who wins the contest for the most facinating name, resides in Nashville, Tennessee, and has been sponsoring poetry readings for the longest time. This is the third issue McGuirt has been published in.
Pearl Mary Wilshaw resides in New York, is a teacher and a new writer. This is the first time her work has appeared in cc&d.

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?

---

what is veganism?
A vegan (VEE-gun) is someone who does not consume any animal products. While vegetarians avoid flesh foods, vegans don’t consume dairy or egg products, as well as animal products in clothing and other sources.

why veganism?
This cruelty-free lifestyle provides many benefits, to animals, the environment and to ourselves. The meat and dairy industry abuses billions of animals. Animal agriculture takes an enormous toll on the land. Consumtion of animal products has been linked to heart disease, colon and breast cancer, osteoporosis, diabetes and a host of other conditions.

so what is vegan action?
We can succeed in shifting agriculture away from factory farming, saving millions, or even billions of chickens, cows, pigs, sheep turkeys and other animals from cruelty.
We can free up land to restore to wilderness, pollute less water and air, reduce topsoil reosion, and prevent desertification.
We can improve the health and happiness of millions by preventing numerous occurrences od breast and prostate cancer, osteoporosis, and heart attacks, among other major health problems.

A vegan, cruelty-free lifestyle may be the most important step a person can take towards creatin a more just and compassionate society. Contact us for membership information, t-shirt sales or donations.

vegan action
po box 4353, berkeley, ca 94707-0353
510/704-4444

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.