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 18

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

ISSN 1068-5154

Tales, by Deloris Selinky Tere are all kinds of tales. Glad and sad. Real and fables. Tales set to music, highlighted in color, and by pictures to make them recognizable. Sometimes these tales arrive as presents in wrapping paper, tied with ribbon and a bow. two for ringside, by C Ra McGuirt i hadn’t been to the matches since i stepped out of the ring washed off the makeup for good, & went back to only a poet by i’d promised my vanya to take us sometime, & last night, we finally made it. the dystrophic to my right remembered me, & smiled like hell: “y-yeah! yeah! l-luscious leslie!” we laughed shoptalk all card long: he knew his theatre well... before the official carnage commenced, they played the rocket’s red glare & i stood with my hand on my cynical heart, proud to be an american artist at the blue collar ballet with the heart of my stepson from russia beating excited beside me. everyone’s work was excellent, the referree expertly blind. i saw a few moves that i hadn’t before, & it made me ache to break gravity, trade some pain to sell the marks on our status as demons and demigods... too bad my time and back are gone. vanya climbed my knee to see the devastation just beyond the inevitable fat old woman, & i held him up through 10 matches, discounting beer & bathroom breaks. the pain was small; the joy immense, & in the midst, a thought: if god were great, i’d still be working & my child could watch me fly... but that night, god was only good. beneath the evening shroud, by Richard King Perkins II This is a rare occurance, the weatherperson confesses - But not without precedent. Four powdery inches of Snow in late October and already the heaters are Churning as if it’s the lull time between Christmas and The new year. Like bulky afghans draped over the Back of the living room couch, my daughter and I Gaze outside through a crystalline-edged window - Listening intently as every snowflake regathers in Unique formation, each with a new story to tell. As a dormant soil, the entire world lies open before us, And voices tremble with an ordinary and mystical hush. Our home is grown warm with conversation, and like Flowers at dusk, my child’s eyes begin to slump, closing Upon their shallow reservoirs. She wakens slightly as I cradle her guileless form, Carrying my small love up the stairs to be lain in the Crumbled liquid of her bed. For the barest moment, We exist in that deeper place, looking at one another So that we ache with an unconcealable euphony. This Will become a tim in years to pass, that each of us Will not fail to remember. I ask her if she’d like me to Read the old story about the puppet, the lantern, and The moth. She says no, not tonight, because the world, You know, is already too filled with stories. I turn off the light, our long shadows disappear and We are together in a patchwork slip of moonlight. This is the beginning of a new story which I cannot tell Her because she is already breathing slowly, and Unlike the snow plow rumbling past just now, is Grappling with a cloaked essential, flapping like an Angel in drifted snow, deeply, deeply at rest. Southern baptist, by Mike Lazarchuk Jensen had 1 moss green tooth Off left top of his mouth Could spit tobacco juice 2 neat bullets flying out A few yards claimed he could land Each brown slug on a quarter Put 50 cents out in his Chicken shit yard stand on the Porch & land his drool right On those damn yankee Washingtons Jensen grew 5 acres of sad peanuts Okra & greens in south Georgia The last holdout against the Corporation’s industrial obsession Got caught in a court order filed by a couple of smooth from Atlanta Lost it all signing over those acres His bib overall pride beginning to wither Watching that stark black car From the city hauling his life away 72 years worth of nothing left standing on That rickety rocking chair porch swaying Back & forth like a ratty Georgia pine Bellowing & blabbering to his Baptist Jesus Jensen’s clod-hoppers splattered with guts Red-Boy Jensen’s faithful to the end hound dog Blown apart red blood mixing With red Georgia blood Jensen cradling the old squirrel killing shotgun Eyes to the sky barrel under his chin babbling Jesus O Jesus we’s comin’ home performance poet, by Wayne Hogan She was a performance poet. She carried a white rooster on her left shoulder and recited the Gettysburg Address from large cue cards held just off stage. The r ooster would tighten its grip ever so slightly to let the poet know when she was through, then the rooster would flap down onto the floor. The rooster would leave grip-marks on the poet’s left shoulder. shelley’s love song, by Harold Fleming Why didn’t you scream? Instead you let his dark fingers develop rings around your neck, strings of affection that you knew were not somebody wanting you; yet, desire held to you all that week. You were not someone pulled on by a mother’s apron. Love me, love me, cried the Hungarian musicbox you always felt you could turn on or off. Piano outside your bedroom black reminder. Bathroom off your hallway, white reminder. No contest: body for five nights wild now moved on wobbly footsteps of a child. Meanwhile, the pressure on your throat increased. Fingers bit flesh, and nails held on like teeth. A J.B. Scott’s Dream, by Alan Catlin It was is if I had been here before, the closed-in airless feeling of hot, sweating bodies, smoking each other’s cigarettes, recycling all the dead still air and the waitress is wearing a T-shirt that says lover boy and she has the look in her eye that says don’t even try, wise guy and there’s a Stones tape on the closed circuit tv which brings me back all the way to a college bar and I’m drinking double Vodka Sours in the dark corner of the bar where the bowling machines cling and clang all night and none of my friends ever come here because they can’t stand the noise and she’s saying: “I don’t care, I’m into the silent spaces between the notes.” which is really kind of weird for her but also kind of all right too, she likes it weird, lays her hand on my knee, leans forward in the dark barroom, so close I can see the thin white scars on her forehead beneath the thick blonde hair and she’s saying: “It’s All Over Now Baby Blue.” but she can’t find it on the juke box all selector so I settle for Too Much of Nothing because it’s by Dylan too and it’s how I feel most of the time these days and that’s why I don’t care that I’m drinking Double Vodka because pretty soon, I’ll be sick and drunk and nothing will matter and if I’m lucky I might even pass out and I’m singing along with the words and she says: “I thought you were into silences?” and I’m saying: “Oh, that’s true, I am but sometimes I like to fool myself into thinking I might be alive.” and now she’s saying that she had to make love to me because she’d never met anyone so intensely bizarre as I was and I must be Oh, wow, like surreal in bed and I’m telling her that it was true, all my lady friends call me the Mad Russian and some even say there oughta be a law against my coming around and in some places I hear maybe there is. I order one more double Smirnoff Silver neat while she’s powdering her nose or whatever it is a woman does in the bathroom when she wants a man to wait and I’m punching in All Along the Watchtower on the selector and I’m losing control because I really don’t like hard whiskey or fast women but the two run in pairs and I’m always in bars, on one side or the other, and she’s got these long, thin fingernails that leave scars on your back and it’ll hurt all night whenever I look at her staring out into the long, dead silences between love screams and I wonder what spaces there are in her I was supposed to fill but I get no answers and then, there I was again in Scott’s and everyone is sitting on the bar as if they are squeezed into the back room of the courthouse for The Trial and they are stamping their feet on the bar stools looking out into the smoke and the haze and Jim Carroll is singing about All Those People Who Died and no one can remember the words to this song except a crazy blonde with razor fine hair and I wonder if she still kisses like a snake, if she still loves to draw blood from your bones and if she’s always gone in the morning whenever I wake up. Tzara & Blake, by Alan Britt Tristan Tzara & William Blake converse on a park bench. They watch many individuals pass by. One after another people march by... their lives framed... portraits of logic. A child skips by. Already the bars of womanhood are beginning to cover her face. She stamps her foot at a mysterious bug... then delights at the green and purple wings of a dragonfly. The dragonfly’s eyes revolve like planets. Tzara & Blake continue to discuss the ironies of Swedenborg, angels & dragonflies. Briefly into the sunshine steps a man with a distorted face. “Another marked face,” says Blake. “That which destroyed his face created Dada,” adds Tzara. Their conversation continues. Among their subjects Rene Char & Miguel Hernandez. Other plans are made. After lunch they intend to study the undersides of various leaves that have fallen into a nearby pond. The mound known as the mind, by John Binns Archibald learned late but learned well, Heaven and Hell, he found, were in the mound Known as the mind and kind Is he who has the wherewithal, the rest must sink. downed, by Paul Weinman A dark-feathered grebe floats low in the water watching my cautious movement along the shore. I look down as my foot steps brittle into beach leaves brown and she has dived down. I wait but cannot see where she reappears - the trees rim the lake and there is no picking her neck from the gray. Waking a slight path someone has made from the road I remember myself sitting in the corner of our being together. When I wouldn’t talk or try to find. The pine needles are wet and soft under feet. They lead to rocks slapped with waves of early winter. I look in water at a dark face - a jagged reflection and I know I have dived down, too. dive, by Janet Kuypers The water has always called to me. I had to go, I know you don’t understand, but it was the end for me. You stand on the edges of the cliff, waiting, hoping, but I’m gone. I left. I was gone before I dove into the murky water. The pain that was inside me is now in the water. The tides are now stronger. They will pull the next one in with even more power. It may be you. The birds are chirping in the trees. A car will soon drive by on the road not far from your path. Life will go on, even without me. My spirit was here, in the water, before I left. I had to go. Try to understand. a survivor said, by Cheryl Townsend she caught just a glimpse of the knife reflecting the full moon’s glow before it was against her throat and pressing hard like his hand already upon her breast day-long alcohol smelled like death as he dictated his intentions Sad Spring of the Superior, by Mary Winters They are without hope - they have come to terms with that; they find it a reason for their own kind of thriving. spring is hateful, pressuring them to enthusiasm; it is unfairly coercive, tactless. Spring eschews discernment, it is unsubtle, it is too fecund, it is gross, they often say. Anyone can enjoy spring; therefore, it is worthless. When the stunted tree in a dark courtyard sprouts three new leaves which immediately shrivel: here, perhaps, spring is moving, deliciously sad - perhaps, a delicate symbol for fleeting love. Otherwise, spring is thoughtless, unnuanced. Spring is barbaric; it cannot be shut up like the screamiest opera these elite ever heard. It is spiteful, loading trees with white blossoms which look like snow - they so much wish it were. Its scale is anti-human; it is simply too big like a particularly daunting skyscraper. Spring refuses mystery, it is about light, when all that is interesting happens in darkness. Nothing can really hold up in bright sunlight. Janet Kuypers: Stalker “The Final Pages of Fear” And she got out of her car, walked across her driveway, and walked up the stairs to her porch, trying to enjoy her solitude, trying not to remember that he had followed her once again. She thought she was free of him; she thought he moved on with his life and that she would not have to see his face again. Why did he have to call her, on this one particular day, years later, while she was at work? Maybe if she could have been suspecting it, she might have been braced for it. But then again, she didn’t want to think about it: she was happy that she was finally starting to feel as if she had control of her life again. It had been so many years, why would she have expected him to follow her again? Didn’t she make it clear years ago that she didn’t want him waiting outside her house in his car anymore, that she didn’t want to receive the hang-up calls at three in the morning anymore? Or the calls in the middle of the night, when he’d stay on the line, when she could tell that he was high, and he’d profess his love to her? Or the letters, or the threats? No, the police couldn’t do anything until he took action, when it was too late. Why did he come back? Why couldn’t he leave her alone? Why couldn’t it be illegal for someone to fill her with fear for years, to make her dread being in her house alone, to make her wonder if her feeling that she was being followed wasn’t real? All these thoughts rushed through her head as she sat on her front porch swing, opening her mail. One bill, one piece of junk mail, one survey. It was only a phone call, she had to keep thinking to herself. He may never call again. She had no idea where he was even calling from. For all she knew, he could have been on the other side of the country. It was only a phone call. And then everything started to go wrong in her mind again, the bushes around the corner of her house were rustling a little too loud, there were too many cars that sounded like they were stopping near her house. Her own breathing even scared her. I could go into the house, she thought, but she knew that she could be filled with fear there, too. Would the phone ring? Would there be a knock on the door? Or would he even bother with a knock, would he just break a window, let himself in, cut the phone lines so she wouldn’t stand a chance? No, she knew better. She knew she had to stay outside, that she couldn’t let this fear take a hold of her again. And so she sat. She looked at her phone bill again. She heard the creak of the porch swing. She swore she heard someone else breathing. No, she wouldn’t look up from her bill, because she knew no one was there. Then he spoke. “Hi.” She looked up. He was standing right at the base of her stairs, not six feet away from her. “What are you doing on my property?” “Oh, come on, you used to not hate me so much.” He lit a cigarette, a marlboro red, with a match. “So, why wouldn’t you take my call today?” “Why would I? What do I have to say to you?” “You’re really making a bigger deal out of this than it is,” he said, then took a drag. She watched the smoke come out of his mouth as he spoke. “We used to have it good.” She got up, and walked toward him. She was surprised; in her own mind she never thought she’d actually be able to walk closer to him, she always thought she’d be running away. She stood at the top of the stairs. “Can I have a smoke?” “Sure,” he said, and he reached up to hand her the fire stick. She reached out for the matches. “I’ll light it.” She put the match to the end of the paper and leaves, watched it turn orange. She didn’t want this cigarette. She needed to look more calm. Calm. Just be calm. She remained at the top of the stairs, and he stood only six stairs below her. She sat at the top stair. “You really think we ever got along?” “Sure. I mean, I don’t know how you got in your head -” “Do you think I enjoyed finding your car outside my house all the time? Did I enjoy seeing you at the same bars I was at, watching my and my friends, like you were recording their faces into your memory forever? Do you think I liked you coming to bother me when I was working at the store? Do you -” “I was.” She paused. “You were what?” “I was logging everyone you were with into my head.” She sat silent. “At the bars - I remember every face. I remember every one of them. I had to, you see, I had to know who was trying to take you away. I needed to know who they were.” She sat still, she couldn’t blink, she stared at him, it was just as she was afraid it would be. And all these years she begged him to stop, but nothing changed. She couldn’t take it all anymore. She put out her right hand, not knowing exactly what she’d do if she held his hand. He put his left hand in hers. “You know,” she said, then paused for a drag of the red fire, “This state would consider what you did to me years ago stalking.” She held his hand tighter, holding his fingers together. She could feel her lungs moving her up and down. He didn’t even hear her; he was fixated on looking at his hand in hers, until she caught his eyes with her own and then they stared, past the iris, the pupil, until they burned holes into each other’s heads with their stare. “And you know,” she said, as she lifted her cigarette, “I do too.” Then she quickly moved the cigarette toward their hands together, and put it out in the top of his hand. He screamed. Grabbed his hand. Bent over. Pressed harder. Swore. Yelled. She stood. Her voice suddenly changed. “Now, I’m going to say this once, and I won’t say it again. I want you off my property. I want you out of my life. I swear to God, if you come within fifty feet of me or anything related to me or anything the belongs to me, I’ll get a court order, I’ll get a gun, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you away forever.” “Now go.” He held his left hand with his right, the fingers on his right hand purple from the pressure he was using on the open sore. He moaned while she spoke. She stood at the top of the stairs looking down on him. He slowly walked away. She thought for a moment she had truly taken her life back. She looked down. Clenched in the fist in her left hand was the cigarette she just put out. Why Airplane Travel Delights, by Mary Winters It’s the death (spectacular crashes) and it’s the sex (those ads, and your own naughty experiences aloft); it’s the big okay to drinking during the day it’s that glorious sense of forward momentum you never feel at home; it’s the cheerful wolfish knowing of airline staff: what goes up must come down, and probably in one piece - hey, ho it’s either the baggage claim area for you or that nondemoninational chapel for your family. It’s the lore overheard, it’s a tight-fitting uniform it’s that oh-so-juicy temptation: you’re never coming back. It’s get there or die - and what a death, a death to dream about, to hope for, to pray for: twenty seconds foreknowledge at 35,000 feet, and then, so quick, it’s over... heaven, of course, being reading alone in first class with just the right amount of Chardonnay... again and again, by Cheryl Townsend again and again it’s not as easy as it seems She listened to the never agains with a distance unmeasured his hollowed promises falling in that void somewhere in between untitled, by Paul Weinman Mom puts her hand of splotch-marked sticks to her face, tries adjusting the streaks of rosy paste that stripe slow rivulets of thickness as she fumbles to remember my name. J’Reviens, by Janet Kuypers It’s harder to find the eye shadow I have always used. And my favorite cologne - J’Reviens - was that it? Yes, it was. I wish I was as beautiful now as I was then. Son, you don’t understand. guilt, by Al Rogovin Guilt crawls behind my eyes on the job while I guard the construction site, listen to the generator churn and do my time. Tonight I can’t forgive myself for killing and murdering or cheating On my way back home the sun rises gray from the wrong direction as worms crawl onto wet and shiny morning pavement for good guiltless sex to die this Ford F-150 death.

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.

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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.

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.