Nick DiSpoldo, Small Press Review (on Children, Churches and Daddies, April 1997) Children, Churches and Daddies is eclectic, alive and is as contemporary as tomorrow’s news.

Children, Churches and Daddies

Volume 15

The Unreligious, Non-Family-Oriented Literary and Art Magazine

ISSN 1068-5154

waiting for you (2/13/94), by Janet Kuypers i look out at the evening sky snow falling out of the sky star-shaped flakes as big as fingertips falling onto my face melting into my skin touching me sharp and sweet like your hand on my cheek in the cold of winter it almost feels warm

Curtain Call, by C Ra McGuirt too early for fast food breakfast and far too late to quit writing. what happened to that promising thunder? several good flashes rattled the glass, but i was driving my word machine and when i forgot about the storm, the storm misplaced the lightning. the birds are in rehearsal; their voices aren't unpleasant, but for me, it's a sad sort of music: a song for the end of the night.

urine, by Brandon Freels "You're just a mutant," Shane said as Casey peed on his face. We all ran down by the two of them to see Casy complete this amazing task. "How the heck are you doing that?" I yelled at Casey. "It's easy!" he said. "Doesn't take much practice...just a little hard work and some confidence!" We all looked over at Shane to see his reaction... "I think it's stupid!" Shane said. "What the hell would you pee on your face for? That's completely stupid! I mean, only an idiot would pee on himself!" So Casey got up and beat the shit out of Shane...then we all tried to pee on ourselves unsuccessfully, afterall, Casey was our hero.

walking home from school, by Janet Kuypers once when I was little I was walking home from school filled with fear, like I always was the other kids made fun of me they called me names sometimes they threw rocks at me once they pushed me to the ground went home, bleeding knees and tears but once, I'll never forget, Patti from 121st street was walking behind me and threw her gym shoes at me they landed right next to me as I was walking down that first big hill I don't know if I stopped but I remember for a brief moment looking up at the tall tree branches next to the road all the entangled dead branches and I thought that all I had to do was pick up her shoes and throw them as hard as I could and she would never get her shoes back I looked at the trees for only a moment and I continued walking as fast as I could as I always did and suddenly the shoes were long behind me and the others were laughing I look back now and wonder why I didn't do it was I scared of them was I scared of myself I still keep asking myself that

Freeways as Seen Near Gargoyles, by Lida Broadhurst Freeways straddling the undergrowth like animals, Whose creators omitted brains or heart, Offer contrast to gargoyles. Those stone masks carved from hatred Provide catharthis for the sculptor, although Rain, not invective, pours from silent lips.

a child in the park, by Janet Kuypers this was no ordinary park, mind you: there were no swings or children laughing; there were different children there. There was recreation: tennis, the pool, and a maze of streets for bicycles and long walks; surrounded by rows of prefabricated homes each with one little palm tree by the driveway. People drove golf carts around in the park, or large tricycles, or older couples would walk together just as it was beginning to turn to dusk and long shadows from tree-tops criss-crossed over the streets. In the afternoons, the women in the pool would wear hats and sunglasses, lean against the sides, swing legs in the warm water. I remember the summer afternoons when it rained in Florida, and after the rain I would go out in the puddles in my roller skates, skate through them, feet soaking wet. There was even a street named after me in the park, and at the end of Jan Drive there was a pond. I spent hours there, playing imaginary games, pretending I was grown-up, feeding the ducks, watching the fish swim around the rocks at my feet, looking for the turtles, listening to the wind. Oh, I remember Mr. Whorall, how he would walk onto his driveway every time I was playing tennis across the street. He would watch me, tell me how I was getting better at the game every time he saw me. And there was also Mrs. Rogers, who lived up the street from me. She saw me riding my bicycle by one day just before Halloween. She invited me in to help carve a pumpkin. Every year she bought me a Christmas present. The sweetest woman. The most beautiful woman. And there was Ira and Betty Wiggins, who lived on the next street, Sand Drive, with a sign in front of their house that said, "The Wiggins' Wigwam." They had a hammock on their porch, and art so beautiful, so colorful on their walls. They lived in Panama for years, he used to be a doctor. So many things collected from all their travel. They both knew so much, they both loved life. Once they saw me and asked if I wanted to catch a lion. They then went to the side of the road, and with a spoon pulled an ant lion from the top of a sand hill. So many secrets. Every night Ira could be found with cue holder, decorated with Panamanian art, at the pool table, playing my father, or another man who died years ago. I remember that man telling me that when I was younger he would watch me on Easter Sunday, me in my pastel dress, by myself, spinning, dancing in the streets. He remembered me dancing. This is his memory, how he thought of me. And I remember the McKinleys, Pete and Lindy, another beautiful pair who talked of Mexico, of all the places they'd gone, all the things they had seen. So many times I would visit them just to hear them talk. And Pete would try to stump me with an intellectual riddle every time I sat with him; he would ask me about astronomy, what I had learned in my classes since the last time I visited the park. Sometimes they would take me to their country club, play on tennis courts made of clay, how strange it felt on my feet through my tennis shoes. It was like another world there. The park was where I spent my Christmases, my Easters. I remember swimming in the pool, a week shy of thirteen, when my parents told me I was an aunt. Now I talk to my sister on the phone, she asks me if I remember so-and-so from Palos Avenue, from Blue Skys Drive. The couple that had the ornate rock garden in their front yard, or the snow shovel against their lightpost with the words "rust in peace" painted in white on the metal. Yes, I say, I remember them. Well, so-and-so passed away last week, she says. Heart attack. This is what it comes down to, I think, all these memories are slowly disappearing. So many memories. Where there are palm trees everywhere. It was my other world, my other life, another lifestyle, another everything. This was not an ordinary park, but the children were so much smarter, and still so full of life. So much to teach. So little time.

FEBRUARY AND MARCH, by Kurt Nimmo He looked out the window. Now he thought I have written about that a hundred times. About a solitary man looking out the window at a woman or a bird and it's always the same character... and that character is me. She had let the dog out and the little black dog had pissed on the lawn and as he looked at the lawn now he saw where the grass had turned brown where the little black dog had pissed. He had never really liked the dog. It wasn't dogs in general but that dog in particular. He had earlier read in the newspaper how a man in the city had died and wild dogs had eaten part of him before the police came with the truck and hauled him off to the morgue. He saw her dog out there on the lawn meticulously sniffing and preparing to piss and then shit on the frozen grass of February. Would the little black dog eat him if it was hungry enough? She stood near the window looking. Fifteen minutes before they had made love in the bed. She had locked the dog out of the bedroom. It stayed on the other side of the door. It wanted to get inside. It always wanted to be with her and it probably now was even though he wasn't. He didn't think a dog was capable of jealousy but this little black dog seemed to be jealous of him. When he kissed her on the sofa the dog tried to get between them. It had barked and he had wanted to lock it outside in the cold. He didn't want to hurt the dog or any other creature but all the same he didn't want it near him. He looked out the window. In March she had sent her daughter to her father's house in another city and they spent Sunday morning making love. He remembered the sun coming through the window on the east side of the house. He remembered the way his skin looked under that warm yellow light as he walked naked past the window in the minutes before they had made love. She had come up behind him and shut the curtains because she was afraid the neighbors would see him naked there framed in the window. She was in a robe and he smiled and said something about the robe and how much better she looked with it off and then he slowly untied the sash of the robe and pushed it over her shoulders and it fell down around her white ankles. She made little noises as he put both his hands on her breasts. Outside he heard the little black dog struggling at its rope and yelping and crying because it wanted to get inside and be with her there in the warmth behind the closed curtains. He knew that they would never fall in love. He knew that it would only be for a short time and after that time had elapsed he would be alone again. He didn't know how long it would take before he fell in love again. Or before he died. He thought that after his death somebody would publish all his short stories and poetry. After you die the world comes to an end and it does not matter one way or the other if somebody comes along and puts all your stories and poetry in a book. Many times he had told himself that love is a disease but now as he looked out the window at the circle of dead brown grass on the lawn he thought that he would like to fall in love one more time before he passed away from the world. I want to fall in love more than I want all my stories and poetry published in a book that I will never live to see. In February they spent time together. In ~une she told him that it was probably best if they went their own separate ways. In August he called her on the phone and asked her out but she told him that she was now engaged to be married. He wished her good luck and then hung up the telephone. He went in the other room and took down the vodka bottle. If it wasn't vodka it was the writing and if not the writing then it was the voluminous reading. It was like his life went from the bottle to the writing machine to the books and then back to the bottle in the cabinet. When he was with her he thought about the writing and when he was alone trying to write he thought invariably of her. It was a way he didn't want to be so when she called it off he was secretly relieved. He was too much of a coward to end it and dedicate himself to the writing. Inside he wanted to give up the writing and fall in love even though he knew that love is very temporary and translucent and in the end writing is hard and steady as a slice of granite. It is easy to fall in love but not easy to write and when the writing walks out the door it more often than not is gone forever. Ask Hemingway. Early in the morning when he stayed at her place the dog followed him around. He was naked and thought about the next story he wanted to write as he went out and put the coffee on. She was like many women in his life. She wanted to make love in the morning and then sleep until ten or eleven. He was up and out of bed walking around naked even during the coldest days of February and inside of him the stories twisted and turned and if he didn't get them out they would be lost. He sat in the bathroom on the toilet with a pad of paper writing it down but it wasn't right and he usually threw the paper in a wicker basket near the toilet. After he put the coffee on he went back in the bedroom and she said something to him and then he was under the blanket with her making love and the stories went away forever. In May the love was not the same. He knew women and how they let if go and after a few weeks he was alone again and the stories were there. Strange how it works he thought as he went to the cabinet and brought down the bottle of Gilbey's vodka. He poured himself one with tonic water and sat in the chair near the window reading a book of short stories. Occasionally he thought of her and how she had said she was going to get married and he wondered if the love making was good and if they were happy together. Or if she had let him go and was now alone reading the popular novels she liked to read before she went to bed. He looked out the wi ndow. It was late September and everything was about to change. He saw where the grass had turned brown. He thought about her and how the little black dog had always stayed close and he didn't think that was all bad. She had the little black dog and he had his writing machine. He wouldn't have to bury the writing machine...

acknowledge, by Janet Kuypers excerpt from Hope Chest In The Attic, 1993 You're my best friend my love you make me feel alive Thank you my inspiration Thanks for going to C Street so many times with me Thanks for talking to strangers on the Quad Thanks for spilling your heart out to me Thanks for being so caring For buying me a Dr. Seuss book for sitting with me by my Christmas tree for inviting me to basketball games for all the pizzas for taking walks with me in the springtime at three in the morning I say you can be happy for someone else's happiness I feel that way about you

the automatic prayer, by Larry Blazek In a far land, the monks would spin the prayer wheels. A well-to-do farmer would be able to purchase a spin or two with a copper coin. Retainers and householders gave a silver penny for a hundred or so blessings. A gold coin from a wealthy noble would buy a thousand blessings. The king kept the apprentice monks hefty and muscular, ceaselessly bestowing endless millions of suplications to the gods, who, if the ever existed, were surely bored to death or deafened by the endless patter of pious suggestions. Twenty sailors were washed up upon the shore when their rotted galley broke up in a heavy sea. They had a single brass coin with a holt in it that was suspended from a string from a boy's neck and a scrap of sailcloth among them. The shivering, weary men huddled in the leeward side of a rock and discussed what they should do. They went to the hills where the monestary was and sent the lad inside to puchase a blessing. The priests tossed him and his coin into a dung heap. A group of knights noticed the boy. They patted his shoulder and gave him a staff. Then the drew their swords and baited him to death. The naked sailors saw what was going on and tried to rescue the boy with improvised weapons; alas, the boy perished and the sailors were enslaved upon the benches of yet another rotting galley. So the sailors learned a valuable lesson; the gods listen, but not to brass farthings.

K.F.E.Q., by Jeff Foster I work the graveyard at a country music station mostly twelve hour shifts lots of black coffee and mountain dew caffeine like amphetamine rush of my old addiction Long nights babysitting satellite this is a partially automated station reading, writing poetry, readying submissions rituals at the candy machine ogling the bikini calendar in one of the sales department cubicles I monitor the computers hit the news at the top of each hour take transmitter readings test the ebbs and watch the weather menstruate by radar and gage

WATER ON THE MOVE, by Kurt Nimmo Thomas considered the snow. It was late afternoon and the sun was almost down. Snow went off through dark green pines. Thomas stood near the road edge, where a three foot high bank of snow had earlier been shaped, and stared off into the woods. Out there, he imagined, water moved in a river. Because water moved it did not freeze. Thomas had an urge to find the river and follow it to wherever it went. But the snow was everywhere and up to his knees. He stood there thinking about it. They were all back at the cabin. All of them were married, with children, and this had done something irrevocable to their lives. They were there for a clan reunion. Thomas was the unmarried one. Now, as he stood there staring at the dark pines and flat white snow, he felt as if his unmarried and childless status were a burden. It's difficult to breathe, he thought, especially when trapped in the cabin with all of them. At this moment he'd rather be out in the cold where the spaces were large and unobstructed. He wanted to walk off through the snow and find that river of moving water. layne had married his friend. Thomas had been with her a decade before. It had never worked out between them. Like all the women in his life, Jayne had wanted him to change. He was writing back then. Not much and not very good, but writing. Now he held no illusions about writing or anything else. Thomas drank and the creative part of his life was now nothing more than a shadow. He saw himself lost out there in the dark spaces between pine trees. There was nothing left to put down on paper. Thomas didn't know her. She was another person now, a stranger. When he looked at her there seemed to be few associated memories. Drinking had done that, or so he told himself. Drinking was a form of cowardice. None of the clan drank like he did. They had gravity in their lives while he combated weightlessness. Drinking was necessary, an anchor which prevented him from floating awa y entirely. Thomas feared sobriety. Everything, he thought, is out of control. He had threatened to kill her. She would, of course, never forgive him. Now, a decade later, she looked at him like a person looks at a rabid dog - never certain when and where the animal might bite. Thomas didn't hold it against her. She had every right to mistrust him, to stay away from him. Her almost banal politeness and empty conversation perturbed him. It was this conversation and particularly the uneasiness of her eyes which had made Thomas decide to go through the cabin door and down the road until he reached the darkness of pines some distance away. He wanted to be alone. He wanted the conversation to end. Silence. He wanted to find the river and follow it to wherever it went. That he might get lost or even freeze to death didn't concern him. It really didn't seem all that important. Now the sun was down. Snow took on a deepening blue as darkness approached. Thomas remembered that the snow was this same color the afternoon he had discovered them together. He had threatened her. Then she moved her things out. For a long time after, he remembered, the snow was that same cold empty blue color. The color it was now as he stood there remembering. That he remembered at all, after such and expanse of nothingness, surprised him. What I need, Thomas thought, is a drink. When he turned away from the woods he saw where the road stretched out and went in a northerly direction. There, where the road began its descent into a semicircle of denuded hardwoods, sat the small cabin. Warm yellow light burned through cabin windows. Thomas moved slowly, instinctively toward the light. The evening was very quiet and cold, the sky a dark purple sprinkled with faraway stars. Water moved, he knew, hidden in the dark expanse at his left. Thomas sincerely wanted a good stiff drink. It was this need and his cowardice which moved him down the road. The indifference of nature, and its peculiar ability to kill without retribution or judgement, filled him with a numb acceptance. His failures no longer seemed important. Wind moved through pines. Thomas imagined the taste of scotch. He'd mix it with cold water.

Measuring, by Mary Winters "Mom, how many seconds in a year?" (This posed before coffee.) Yes...how many exactly: angstroms, ells, light-years, hectares, gills. Your son's zeal: quantification. Measure the outside world, precise. Mom, if you don't know, then: "What's your guess? What's your best, best guess if you had to make a guess?" Your best guess, quoting friend: "If life begins at forty, what was all that other stuff?" Well, it was stuff in gray areas. It was always judgment calls. It was jerks along a spectrum. No alidades, octants, plumb rules, T squares, verniers. All entirely subjective.

untitled, by Paul Weinman Mom wanders her words in cautious attempts at putting faces to events while dad applauds contestants as they answer daytime questions. Did you know that one? She sometimes asks.

WAITING ROOM, by Melanie Votaw I breathe in the air provided me by the unknown patron, feeling shamefully ungrateful as I return it jagged. He watches me. I fold my right thigh over my left, to vainly conceal how easily he could cause them to turn from each other like enemies, rendering my mind's will impotent. He observes me like a scientist would a new creature discovered in a remote jungle, brought back to civilization for the mere pleasure of his insatiable curiosity. I feel like the star exotic dancer lying on a glass slide under light and lens. As I am drenched in his bottomless gaze, a part of me I have not yet met runs to hide behind the rest of me, out of my sight, did he notice the lone tear of sweat licking my face from forehead to chin as I imagine his tongue might? He swallows. A woman all in white intrudes, his name dripping off her lips, I triumphantly catch the sound like a bullet in my teeth, His footsteps echo the sudden relentless chant of the wall clock and his backwards glance drapes and tickles like sheer red curtains as the bullet melts like chocolate under my tongue. The nurse locks the door behind him. The keyhole oiled, I exhale, unfold my thighs like a love letter, and continue to wait.

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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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

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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.