featured writers in this issue:

Bruce Curley
kathy
Janet Kuypers
Lyn Lifshin
Jay Marvin
Aggie O‘Shay
Carol Raftery
Levanah Sciple
Paul Weinman
Pearl Mary Wilshaw

barbie reads of judy the pregnant doll, by lyn lifshin

with maternity
wardrobe and
sensible shoes,
a fashion doll
with a belly
that snaps off,
reveals a re-
movable baby
that a flat
tummy panel and
a baby carrier
comes along with.
Husband Charlie
is sold separately.
She pats her own
flat mid riff,
isn‘t sure about
another slit in
her skin. After
all, at least
one owner‘s jerked
her head off and
switched it with
Ken until her
mama howled. May
be its velcro,
won‘t be as
bad Barbie thinks
wondering if perhaps
she could give
birth not to a
howling baby but
a kitten, some
thing furry she
could curl up
against, not need
any Charlie or
Ken, to stick her
or suffocate, keep
her trapped as when
she had a rod up
inside her on
a pedastal her
feet were in too
high heels to
run from

they called it trust, by Janet Kuypers

Do you remember when
it was 1:30 a.m. one rainy night
and you asked me what
I wanted to do?
I told you that I wanted
to take a bottle of champagne,
climb on to the roof of your house
and toast in the pouring rain.
You asked me why I said that.
I shrugged my shoulders flippantly
and said that it was something to do.
But I was testing you.
I was afraid to ask
if you would follow me
when I told you to trust me.
And that is why I trusted you
when you poured the champagne
and kissed my wet skin

i called it challenge, by Paul Weinman

Remember when we dripped
coming in from night‘s rain
and you asked me what
this will do?
I thought my holding you
pulling our bodies together
would continue what my lips
had whispered to your skin.
You asked me why I said that.
I shrugged my shoulders flippantly
and said it was something to do.
I was afraid to ask
if you would follow me
when I told you to trust me.
And that is why I followed you
when you took my hand in yours
and led me downstairs.

marilyn monroe reads how hikers find a man buried 5000 years, by lyn lifshin

wonders if maybe
she‘d do better
if she could step
aside that long,
go to sleep as he
did on a hill and
be flash frozen,
not even a gun
or noose, just
lie down in deer
skin and woven
grass with some
berries maybe
a sip of sloe gin,
feel stars lick
her lashes a
drop in the night
temperature she‘d
never feel and
then years under
ice maybe floating
or sandwiched under
ice or a frozen
river to be dis-
covered and prized
as treasure by
fingers that would
fight over her,
long to own her
go to court to
possess her, not in spite of but
because she was
so old

writing your name, by Janet Kuypers

I sat there
in the shade
I took
a stick
I wrote
your name
in the ground
preacher says
the #1 sin
is lust
then I am
condemned
to Hell
for
I
want
you
and I
don‘t care
what
preacher says
for if
the elements
wash away
your name
tonight
I will
be back
tomorrow
to write it
again

reading your sensuality, by Paul Weinman

I stood there
as you walked
in my mind
said nothing
it spun
with sensing
swelling in jeans
father says
the #1 mistake
is sex
then I am
mistaken
in love
for
I
want
you
and I
don‘t care
what
father says
for if
this erection
for you
goes limp
without you
tonight
I
will
be back
tomorrow
to grow hard
again.

sweeper, by carol raftery

he is a brilliant man
a brilliant man who sweeps for a living
chasing away the dustbunnies with the swoop, swoop
of his big fluffy broom,
“i got straight A‘s in high school,” he drawls
a cloudy film creeps over his fading brown eyes,
eyes once so dark people called them black,
so black the iris was not discernable from the pupil
“i didn‘t have to take my final exams and i graduated with the
highest honors,” he said
“and i won the state championship for long-distance running,
set the school record i did,” he says, his voice rising, straining to validate the point,
as if to reinforce this memory for storage in his own brain
he pokes his broom into the corner behind the soda machine, stirring up a cloud of dust that drifts lazily
up, up, catching the sunlight that pours through the cafeteria windows and stops to hover
around the old man‘s nostrils
“Ack, ack, ack”
he coughs into the ratty gray hankerchief he has pulled from his left front trouser pocket
he wipes his mouth and nose, and stuffs it back, all the while, looking thoughtfully
into the dustpile at his feet
he turns his back, picks up his broom, and once more begins to sweep

all men have secrets, by Janet Kuypers

all men have secrets and here is mine.
Strength is my weakness
and now my shoulders don‘t stay in place.
You ask me to open my eyes
but they are. At least I think they are.
Why don‘t you take me in your arms?
Why don‘t you seduce me?
Tear me in half. Rip me apart.
Just don‘t cast me aside.
I don‘t want to be strong. Be strong
for me, so that I can adjust my chin
and not have to worry about
whether or not my eyes are open.

all women have secrets, by Paul weinman

I throw back my shoulders
and stand up straight
just like my mom used of ask.
But now, you‘re about to leave
walk away with what held me together.
How was I to know how to listen?
How to hear words of feelings? Needs?
I can press with the best
stand in a storm for hours
done three women in a day, twice.
Come back, hold my bowed head.
Weakness is my strength.
All women have secrets and here is mine.

snow white, by lyn lifshin

for years, locked in a
development of ranches
forgetting how to drive
she went to bed and
rose up as a virgin
got all A‘s
passed her Italian exam
thighs pale soft as snow
not that anybody would
notice on Rapple
Roar of power motors like beasts
tumbleweed blown from the
mountains like the dream
she walks into suddenly
in rooms full of strange
stooped little men
all anxious to prove their
virility as shorter
men often do. She didn‘t
have anything else to
do and always had done
what was expected was
always anxious to please so
she let them see them
selves in her the way
they wanted tall and as
straight as a live oak
she cleaned the carpets
with ivory snow dreaming of
lost teeth, witches
order clothes from
the French Boot Shop
ordering books from a
catalogue so no evil
could slip in disguised as
an encyclopedia salesman
or a republican candidate
for city hall until having
a weakness for apples she
bites in deep falls in
to a blue daze is someone
in a bell jar until she
spits out what she swallowed,
rescues herself

untitled, by kathy

soft white hands
no traces of physical labor
almost feminine
fingers long and tapered
even cuticles
nails glossy as though they‘d been buffed
to make then shine
alabaster appendages on a statue of clay
no callouses
nothing to irritate
never abrasive or harsh or rough
gliding over me so smoothly
that
i never feel a thing.

beloved victim, by Pearl Mary Wilshaw

When did her
Gaze become the
Glassy stare of a
Blessed icon
Preserved
Beneath a
Plastic dome
Trapped in
Unknowing existence,
Content to
Observe without
Participating, on the
Edge of
Living, never
Venturing into the
Sea of
Life.
Present, yet
Unaware. Not
Comprehending, caring.
Forgetting
People, places, things
Long-life dreams
Talents.
Knowledge, abilities
Skills, coordination
Functions
Eroding in turn until
Infancy
Reclaimed body, mind,
Soul.
Heartbroken
Observers, overcome with
Remembering
Dissolved in sorrow.
Mother,
Beloved victim
Opened
Fetal eyes
Unseeing.

my father, by bruce curley

“One might say that any great creativity
bears within itself a tragedy.
And so this is mine ...”
Boris Pasternak
May 21, 1928
Moscow, USSR
My father,
always ran and ran and ran
to other people
constantly seeking from people
a pat on the back.
My father,
was eaten alive
and spit out,
totally destroyed
by a world
he could not understand
and what would not understand him.
My father,
choked to death one night
and I
swallow and drink
ever since
once through the heart
and once through the head
before he reaches
my stomach.

the path to happiness, by levanah sciple

Through the longest tunnel,
In the deepest wood,
Living on water from the runnel
And the shriveled apples of good
In the dragon‘s cave,
And out the other side.
Escaping the slave
of defeat‘s guide.
Over the twisted roots
Of jagged cliffs.
Sliding on frozen lakes,
Crashing into snowdrifts
Braving waterfalls
lions, ghosts, and Gauls,
Leaping over balls of fire
Crawling beneath the tangled brier
Running faster than the wind
On the road of sharks.
Leaving on the charred road, marks.
Then through the field of victory,
Into the castle of happiness
To live forever among other poets,
Who,
Like you,
Have won.

motorcycle, by Janet Kuypers

you scared me. but i liked it.
i remember sitting behind you
on your motorcycle. i think
my fingers shook as i held your waist.
and i remember looking at my head
on your shoulder in the rear-view mirror.
and i smiled, because it was your shoulder.
as i felt more comfortable with you,
i moved my head closer
to your neck, smelled your cologne,
felt the warmth radiate from your skin.
you scared me. i clenched
your waist every time
i thought you should have used the brakes.
but i still sat behind you. besides,
it was a good excuse
to hold on to you.

motorcycle II, by Paul weinman

You scared me. But I liked it.
i remember sitting in front
on my motorcycle. i think
my gut clenched as you held my waist
and i felt the pulling of our bodies
together in our leathered heat
and i gasped with the touching
knowing i couldn‘t have done it
with words, with ways of saying
and it felt good, my knees
squeezing my machine
you scared me. i clenched
my throttle to control
this speeding into the dark
that frightening area
where my wants to roar
but leaves me speechless.

listen, by lyn lifshin

I live and breathe
your country my
parents were
yes from Mexico but
I live here we
bite into each
other‘s cultures
you can‘t sit
like a Victorian
lady on the
side
lines wondering if
you want to dance
with any one
not just like you.
I interviewed a
skin head, was
going to take him
to lunch at Mc
Donalds but he
preferred Mexican
food, interesting
I said - no its
just the food he
answered but I
say we‘re biting
into each other‘s
culture already,
put it in our
mouth and we‘ve
kissed we‘ve
swallowed just
by my being
here you‘re
becoming more
Mexican,
enchiladas,
tortillas -
we‘ve, already,
honey, danced

the archetype of the artist, by aggie o‘shay

    A predisposition. An ability to sweat. An event.
    Her equilibrium and sense of spatial relationships were such that the fifteen year old gymnast could - and frequently did - dance across the balance beam with her eyes closed. She practiced four hours daily.
    An important competition. An ear infection, ignored. A step too far. An awkward dismount. Mats insufficiently padded, incorrectly placed.
    Two broken hips. A long convalescence. A chunk of modeling clay.
    It is the archetype of the artist.
    They were called the Muses, long ago, those Goddesses who sing through time and space, who may sing at times through frail human vessels.
    A Muse may be viewed as a song which can be heard through a radio tuned to the appropriate station, or as software which can be utilized by a specific brand of hardware, or she may be considered a obsessive-compulsive disorder which can be “cured” through long, long talks and a variety of medications.
    The Muse confers upon her vessel neither greatness nor doom, although either or both may occasionally occur. She is a harsh, inflexible mistress with whom one does not negotiate or compromise. Once invoked, the Muse enslaves, demanding simply and solely that her song be sung perfectly.
    There is no greater arrogance, no greater humility, than that of an artist. She possesses the arrogance of having been Chosen, and the humbling knowledge that the song is all that matters.
    Long gone is the day of the proud and gloriously insane shaman. They shiver alone now, or huddle together in tiny clumps, diseased and singing through parched throats.
    The sculptress was more beautiful than pretty. She had olive skin, a square jaw, and dark kind eyes. Her skin was smooth and clear, and when she had been out in the sun tiny freckles would appear on the bridge of her nose and beneath her eyes. Silver streaked her short, very black hair.
    She was short, with hard, calloused hands. She had kept her gymnast‘s body. Diane was thirty-seven years old.
    She lived with her father, a retired pediatrician, a sober alcoholic, a marathon runner.
    Over the years, Diane‘s relations with men had been turbulent and exceedingly short-lived. They had been desperate and clutching things, more often than not; clutching at ordinary dreams, ordinary love - and she had been pulled away each time.
    Her work was all that mattered, really. She knew this now. Her loneliness became a sad, sweet friend who watched silently as she worked.
    She had lived with her father for several years. They lived quietly and pleasantly together in the big, old house. He did not pretend to understand his youngest daughter, but he tried to accept her. He tried to give her what alcoholism and a breathless career had denied to his three older children.
    Diane‘s two sisters and brother were all three quite successful in a worldly sense. One was a doctor, one a lawyer, one was a vice president for marketing at a major corporation. All three had stable marriages and intelligent, stable children.
    At one time, their “helpful” suggestions and well-meant criticism had angered Diane, but no longer. She understood how odd she must appear to them. And she understood as well their sometimes not quite veiled resentment that she had the father they had never been permitted.
    There was a comforting sameness to their days. Diane rose early and worked throughout the day as her father ran. When evening came, she cooked dinner. She enjoyed cooking, and dinner was invariably exotic and delicious. After dinner, she returned to work and her father washed the dishes.
    She worked in the garage. Her weights and bench were there also. After working for an hour or two, she would stop, turn on the radio, and lift weights. She lifted until her body was rid of the tension and tightness of the day, and she would shower then, and go to bed, and read cookbooks until she fell asleep.
    Cat arrived on the day her father died.
The garage door was open to the cool breeze and morning light. The tom walked in, sat on his haunches, watched her work, and waited. When she noticed him, he meowed once. She brought him milk in a small bowl, and returned to work.
    Wearing shorts and sneakers, her father came in, pulling up on his knees, stretching for his run. “Well, I‘m off. Jesus. What on earth is that?”
    She looked away from her work, at the animal lapping milk. He was a large creature. He was evidently missing his left eye as well as a good bit of his black and white fur. His left ear appeared as if it had been chewed for a time and spat out when found unappetizing.
    Her father grinned. “I don‘t think I‘ll ever understand your taste in males, sweetheart.” He shook his head and ran off.
    The telephone call came a couple of hours later. The rest of the day and that night was a blur of speeding to the emergency room, shouting doctors and nurses, a glimpse of her father with a tube down his throat and things attached to his arms and legs, and a nurse taking her by the arm. “Wait out here, dear. We‘ll let you know. We‘ll let you know.”
    And the young intern, holding her hand and talking quietly. And the drive home at dawn. The telephone calls. Sitting on the living room couch, staring at the wall, not thinking, falling asleep unaware of Cat beside her.
    After the funeral, she sat on the couch with Cat beside her. Her two sisters and brother sat in the living room with her.
“We have to talk about this now,” said the doctor. “With all of us together.”
    “Okay,” said Diane. “Fine.” She had a good idea of what the conversation would consist of.
    “Turn off the tv, Don,” said the lawyer to the marketing VP.
    “I just want to see the scores, that‘s all.”
    “Turn it off.”
    “You got the house, Diane. None of us mind that,” said the doctor.
    “We think you should sell it and use the money to go to school,” said the lawyer. “Plenty of people your age begin second careers, or even -” she looked significantly at Diane “-begin careers.”
    “I admire your creativity, Diane,” said the doctor. “I really do. But to survive, you have to have food, water, and shelter, and in a month or two you‘ll run out of money and you just won‘t have these things anymore.”
    “I don‘t think hardly anybody‘s made a living off sculpturing since the Renaissance,” said the marketing VP. “There just ain‘t a market for that kind of thing.”
    “Poor Dad,” said Diane.
    “Poor Dad,” said the doctor. “I remember waiting up so late, so many times. He always had so much time for all the kids in the world except his own. I‘d just want to talk with him about this or that little problem, never anything big, you know. And then he would finally come home, so late, and stink of bourbon and sit on that damn couch and say he just had to rest his eyes. “I‘m awake, I‘m awake. I‘m just resting my eyes,” and then I‘d hear the snores.”
    “I remember the snores too,” said the lawyer. “God, how I hated him sometimes.”
    “I remember the fights,” said the marketing VP. “I remember when he and mom broke up. I remember when he hit her.”
    “He was the man who let me make my things,” said Diane. She began to cry, and the three other stopped being their occupations for a while, and cried, too.
    When Diane took a deep breath at last, and wiped her eyes, it was to notice a sharp pain in her thigh. “Ouch.” She looked down to see Cat digging claws into her.
    When Cat began to talk, she should of course have been surprised, but somehow she was not.
    “Cat eat no more that awfulness in cans,” he said. “You dig deep in sand and cover good. Cat no savage. Cat eat lobster, with butter and salt. You get Cat lobster now. Or Cat wait you sleep and bite you hard on place where tail should be.”
    “He sure does meow a lot,” said the marketing VP.
    “He might have distemper,” said the doctor.
    “He was talking to me,” said Diane. She rose from the couch.
    “Oh really?” said the lawyer. “What did he say?”
    “Basically he said his catfood tastes like shit and he wants lobster and if he doesn‘t get lobster he‘s going to bite me on the butt. And I‘m not selling this house. See you later.”
    Diane continued her work with a strength and focus greater than she had ever previously experienced.
    Cat talked, but rarely.
    It was to say such things as, “I like this. It is big and mighty. It remind Cat of Cat.” Or, “You pet Cat now,” and after several minutes, “That enough.” And the inevitable, “Lobster time. You go.”
    She was too busy, too possessed, to be particularly curious about his ability. His presence pleased her, though, and she was glad he seemed to enjoy her work.
    A month passed, and another. Cat‘s hair grew thick and lustrous and her credit cards became exhausted. Collection agency people began to call, and Cat had not one but two eyes now, clear golden diamonds. As practical matters began to intrude through every crack and crevice of her life, Cat purred. And ate.
    The day came when she had to say, “Cat, I‘m sorry. There‘s no money left. Not for lobster or even shitty catfood. I‘m going to sell this place, get a job. Maybe go to school. I love you, Cat. I‘ll take care of you, don‘t worry.”
    An artist‘s faith has little to do with belief in an omnipotent, paternal, “all for the best” being. She has faith (if one wishes to call it such) in her utility, in her worthiness as a tool The Muse may deign to use.
    The artist does not pray for riches or eternal salvation. If she prays at all, it is to give thanks for the beauty that flows through her, and to beseech that it may continue.
    Responsibility for another creates conflict for such a priestess. How does one so lost in song provide for, care for someone else?
    Must the artist become, in a small way, a Muse herself?
    She sat on the cool garage floor. Cat lay purring in her lap. He looked up with eyes so lovely she caught her breath.
    “You sell den? Get job? Take care Cat? You foolishest human in world.”
    She smiled down at him. “So I‘ve been told.”
    Cat growled. “You make fun? Cat wait you sleep and -”
    “No, no,” said Diane. “I wouldn‘t presume ... I‘m sorry, Cat. It‘s just -”
    “Cat bit you anyway. Just for fun.” He but her hand, lightly, with the ruthless tenderness of the feline.
    “Ouch!”
    He stood and stretched. He stepped off her lap and sat beside her. “Take care Cat? Cat great king. Cat many female. Make five hundred maybe thousand kittens. Name all Cat.”
“You got job. Cat got job. He take care of foolishest humans in world. You call Hashimoto now, good and foolish human. 4-8-6-4-0-1-1.”
    Diane rubbed her hand. “What?”
    “4-8-5-0-4-1-1. You call. Cat hungry. Go get lobster somewhere else. Goodbye, good human.”
    She watched him leave. “Cat?” The cement floor was cold against her butt.
    She could not work any further that day. The big house shimmered with aloneness. She felt she must make decisions - to clean this or that room, to cook for dinner this meal or that, to bathe or not, to live or nor - and she could decide nothing, except to go to bed.
    In the morning, she called the number on the telephone. “Hashimoto?”
    “His secretary. May I help you?”
    Diane chuckled. “Frankly, I don‘t know why you‘d want to. I make things, and my cat, no, not my cat but this cat, you see, he um -”
    The secretary returned her chuckle. He clicked his tongue. “You artist people are such characters. You must be the sculptor. We‘ve been expecting your call. Mr. Hashimoto will see you at 3 p.m., if that suits you. I‘ll send the men right over to help you load your samples.”
    Diane stared at the telephone. “Okay. Okay?”
    Mr. Hashimoto was the CEO of a large multinational corporation. He believed that employee productivity could be enhanced through stimulation of their aesthetic sensibilities.
    He liked Diane‘s work. “It makes me feel - how do you say in English - religious?”
    He offered her a five-year contract, a sum of money too large to be meaningful, health insurance, and a profit-sharing plan she did not at all understand.
    “Thank you.” She could think of nothing else to say.
    “Thank you,” said Mr. Hashimoto.
    In the garage that evening, she wondered about Cat. Had he been an alien from another planet? A symptom of her isolated existence? Some sort of reward?
    She shrugged. “I‘ll miss you, Cat.”
    She would think about it more later on, maybe. Right now, she had a lot of work to do.

park bench, by Janet Kuypers

    I saw you sit at the park bench. Every day you would go to that one bench, reading the paper, feeding the pigeons, minding your own business. Every day I would watch you. I knew how you adjusted your glasses. I knew how you crossed your legs.
    I had to come out of hiding. I had to know you. I had to have a name for your face. So before you came to the park bench I sat down and pulled out a newspaper. I looked up when I heard your footsteps. I knew they were your footsteps. You walked to another bench. No- you couldn‘t sit there. That‘s not how the story goes. You have to sit here.
    The next day I waited for you before I made my move. You walked back to your bench. I strolled up to the other side, trying to act aloof. I sat down, only three feet away from you. I pulled out my day-old paper. My eyes burned through the pages. I felt your breath streaming down my body. I heard your eyelids open and close. Your heat radiated toward me.
    I casually looked away from my paper. You were gone.

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.