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 27

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

ISSN 1068-5154

hands in the AIDS hospice house, by Lyn Lifshin one just touches itselfone is eating its own fingersone is having nightmares inside an old sock dreaming of injury one can’t stop shakingone hides its ringsone will never know how to touchone is smelling where it was one is stained with the juice of words one just wants to touch wordsone will never get warmone dreams its dark places disappearthat its fingers smell of somebody else’s skin. One knows what to do with whatever it holds ones burned itself from touching what was too hot or too coldit’s grown scar tissue so tough it hardly feels. One grows roots into a cup of whiskey feels ghosts in the dark and turns this into music Play on the Embankment, on the Long Island Railroad Tracks, by Alan Catlin Summer days, small children roll down the dried grass hills near where the commuter trains rush the nine to five workers into the City, every trip the passenger cars are the noisy, metal monsters that send them squealing, send them rolling toward the edges of the highway. Later, riding their bicycles, they sip King Kole Kustard’s Original Italian Ices, watching the trains between stations gathering speed; the Rockville Centre line never stops in Lynbrook after dark where the older children play chicken on the tracks, stepping from the B track to the A, crossed up by the noise and the confusion of bright lights in the dark, the one not rolling down the hill, laughing with the others, gets to catch the running late, incoming train, head on. Pilgrim State Mental Hospital Still Life, by Alan Catlin Home team cards fail to excite her eyes fixed on the black bars closing in the windows, locking the electroshocking scream inside the powder blue walls, where she lives, finger painting bright murals, tropical sunsets of lost continents. inhabiting other worlds; antideluvian dream people leap from her lips all those solitary nights she sits watching the tides come in, overtaking her room. suppressing her instinct to breathe, even now, outside, in mid-summer, unleashed, sitting on a bench with her son, hazelnut eyes loaded up with tranguilizing drugs, she speaks wildly of interplanetary baseball in decompression bubbles that burst in the ears of the stupefied child, sitting, transfixed, by her side watching a pennant race that transcends the interlocking stars. just before the end, by C Ra McGuirt the love was good, although i was out of condoms, & we made do with what we had on hands. i’ll remember the rain & the thunder the beer, the dragon wolf you drew in the midst of my 4 walls. mille, by C Ra McGuirt you are so tiny. ah christ; you are so very small with an aura like the aurora borealis... i hope you don’t burn my eyes out, babe. diary of a sensitive youth, by Richard King Perkins II In Cody I remember the woman with no teeth who was crying. I wanted to give her a couple of cigarettes Or maybe even the whole pack But then I wouldn’t have any, so I kept them, And moved on. In Spokane I was living at the park with the other homeless people. Me and my friend were showing off To the college girls that passed by But I got tired of that So I climbed a cliff about thirty feet high And when I stood on top I could see the whole city And when I looked down I saw a kid about my age Wearing black Converse shoes His body covered by a ripped orange tarp. His hands were on his stomach, cradling his severed head And I thought, well, at least you can’t feel anything - But I wasn’t sure who I was talking to. I couldn’t speak for a couple of days after that, And one night, by the fire, I saw that I was wearing black Converse shoes, Wrapped in a salmon-colored poncho And I knew that I would never talk again If I stayed here, so I got up, And moved on. Outside Spokane I gave a woman my last five dollars because she looked like The woman in Cody who I wanted to give cigarettes to. But even after she had the money, People still turned their heads from her in shame And I thought, what difference does this really make? Five dollars might last half-a-day, And then she’ll still be the same anyway. I was totally broke now, and I wished I hadn’t given all my money away, so I made a note, And I moved on. In Denver I was sleeping at a friend’s place When I heard gunfire and jumped up and remembered, Oh yeah, this is Denver, and went back to sleep Not to bothered by the drive-by-shooting. In the morning I heard that a little boy had been shot in the cross fire. I was sad in a way And wanted to do something to help. Three weeks later, I was still there, Unable to think of any way to help, but I heard He had gotten better anyway and I felt better, So I lit up a found, half-cigarette, inhaled, And began moving on. dare, by Tolek (part two of lonely boy’s revelation of what he wants from the girl he let go, let’s hope he doesn’t lose conviction) i could go out of this silent apartment leave it unlocked in this rain get into my car, it’s silver, unwashed, not altogether beat up but somewhat patched, and actually drive to, luckily i know where it is, your place. sure your boyfriend’s there but he daren’t move. looking in you, eyes locked, damned if blue lightning doesn’t emanate. but of course this would be wrong. the way we own, by liking it, a song. my stepfather tried, by Cheryl Townsend one night of pre-teen budding he pushed one side of the door as I did the other saying you don’t have anything I haven’t seen before and if you do it is time that I did and my confusion poured from my eyes and my gut and my mother was nowhere to dry them nic nack paddy whack, by Cheryl Townsend “... He flipped me over said he was going to treat me like the bitch women are it ripped me like a knife he was pulling my head back by my hair I couldn’t even scream he just kept pushing it shoving it in me harder I could only cry I wanted to fight wanted to scream I wanted to kill him he came in me I know he did because he made noises and sort of relaxed before he got small and took it out of me then said I was gonna taste the shit he had been given all his life the shit women made him eat pulled my head back again and shoved it in my mouth I was gagging almost throwing up but my nack was too far back he was growing but I couldn’t hardly breathe my nose was probab;ly broken from him hitting me he kept calling me a dog kept ramming that in my mouth I kept gagging said my pussy didn’t deserve his jewel then he came again in my mouth and fell back some while I puked then he kicked me in my crotch and head and left me saying yeah gave the dog a bone and laughing” Taunted, by Mary Winters Important plan: get some dirt, bare earth, some naked dust; press your body to it, back and forth, over and over, but such lay no good where sod comes on a truck, thick rolls of rough green spears superimposed: wall-to-wall carpet hacked to fit the curves and corners, nailed ear-splitting into place. No good where grass like hair spray-painted onto balding spot - (hard-aging neighbor’s tack); must be ur-turf unimproved: ground sniffed out behind rented house but slant and spiky pebbles fought you off, both hid at first by stone-cold violets. Must be land used real: ancient Cape Cod cemetary - mosquitoes rose right up, made you spurn a further bond. Too late, my dear: both evolution and a constant city-dwelling - your lust for dirt a fooling crust, your love for earth just painted on. Train Ride, by Mary Winters between Newark and New York: dumpy non-sleek train - you don’t want to sit anywhere near the bathrooms; commuters’ coffee splattered, dried from ceiling to floor; rips in seat covers sutured up big, even, deliberate: knife wounds. Quiet in the morning but loud and rude on the way back: day-workers going home have their beer and their say. Tunnel under the Hudson: blackest dark of blindness, end-of-the-world, time between two lives, torture chamber; then back to daylight, your ears pop. Close your eyes a second, ticket’s gone - common magic. Defeated angels cheer you up, kids skipping school. They slide on board, hawk candy: buy it or I’ll steal your purse, buy it or I’ll break your heart. The Feeding, by Mary Hausman (Hour 1): I order wine on the plane. I have not been drinking. That is, I have not been drinking on a regular basis. This trip home, to Texas, I had a glass of red wine at my sister Karen’s dinner last Friday night. On Tuesday night, during dinner at a Mexican restaurant in Austin, I had half a margarita, split with Karen. I have had several Sharps, a non-alcoholic (.05 % alcohol) beer. The visit has made me thirsty, as visits home are wont to do. I am reading Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice. It is mesmerizing and perhaps has me somewhat spellbound. It led me to buy, when I visited Book Woman, an Austin bookstore, a book called Daughters of Darkness, a collection of lesbian vampire stories. (Hour 2): I knew I would order the wine as soon as I settled into my seat on the plane. I knew it would be red wine. I knew I would drink it slowly, savoring the redness as well as its bitterness. The thought of the dry red wine teased me long before I ordered it. When finally, the flight attendant brought a small bottle of Sutter Home to me and set a plastic glass on my tray table, my heart quickened. I unscrewed the cap (how uncouth, such an anticipated experience blemished by mediocre red wine in a small screw top bottle, to be drunk from plastic!). But anticipated it was, nonetheless, and I watched with calm as the claret liquid filled the plastic glass. I drew the glass slowly to my lips. I closed my eyes and let the cool red run into my mouth, not a deep drink, just enough to taste the tart warmth I’ve missed these months. I set the glass down, not wanting the experience to end too soon. I ate the chicken dinner, perhaps too quickly. It wasn’t something I enjoyed, really, simply something I must do so the alcohol would not affect me so harshly. Having eaten, I drank from a glass of ice-water I had also ordered; this in hopes of diluting the effect of the wine while not entirely diluting the experience. (Hour 3): I read some more from the book. Nearing the finish, I read almost feverishly, stopping periodically to savor the wine. I stretched the experience as long as I could. Once, I rolled the wine within my mouth, letting the liquid become hot against my tongue and the inside of my cheek. As I looked down, the juxtaposition of the red wine against my pale hands with their bright red painted nails holding Interview with the Vampire, did not escape me. I was fully conscience of how I savored the wine, a long-lost need, waiting patiently, sensuously for it to fill my veins. I made love to the edge of the plastic cup, from whence flowed the heat I needed to fill me, knowing that I would need it again and again. Knowing that, left to my own devices, I would take it, again and again. Knowing, I am not so unlike the vampire. brewing the coffee and remembering summer, by Janet Kuypers I pulled the bag of coffee beans from the refrigerator door. I could already smell the aroma of the flavored coffee: this time I picked Bewitching Brandy. I loved the smell. I treated myself to these flavored coffees at only special occasions. I closed my eyes and inhaled, filling my lungs, intoxicating myself with the bouquet. I hadn’t even opened the bag. I walked over to my coffee pot, the one that makes just one cup. I set the white bag down on the counter and opened the top of the bag. I reached over, grabbed a spoon, pushed it into the coffee grounds and dropped a spoonful into the bottom of the pot. The glass pot was a little wet on the inside, and some of the grounds stuck to the sides of the glass before they could fall to the bottom. I then took the boiling water and poured it into the pot, put the lid on it, and set it down to let it brew. I sat down at the table and watched the steam rise from out of the spout. The steam poured out, like it was trying to get away, as fast as it could. It looked violently hot. (continued) I then remembered summer. I would have flavored coffee at work over the summer. Work was my haven, my home away from home. My home away from him. I brought some coffee beans home for my mother once. A week later, while eating dinner with my parents, mother thanked me for the beans. Father, after eating in silence, finally said he didn’t like them. “I don’t know why you had to change. I liked it the way it was.” I couldn’t believe they started to argue over coffee beans. Mother vowed to it like a religion; father discounted it like one. It all seemed so silly and senseless, so I finally spoke up. “I was only trying to be nice,” I said. Father turned his head toward me, looking at me for the first time in weeks. He spoke. “Don’t disrupt my God-damned life, okay?” I don’t even remember the rest of dinner. I just remember feeling hurt, then thinking that that one statement was the most perfect thing he ever said. It summed up twenty years of hatred he had for his daughter, and twenty years of hatred she had for him. I looked down at the flavored coffee brewing in the little pot. Steam was still billowing out the top. I reached over and wrapped my fingers around the glass. It burned my hands. I grabbed the handle, picked up the pot, and poured the coffee into my yellow mug. I brought the mug to my lips with both hands and took a sip. The liquid burned my tongue, my throat, my chest, my stomach. And the burning was as sweet as the taste as I closed my eyes and let the steam crawl up my face as beads of sweat dripped down. daisy, by Janet Kuypers Every time he invited me over, we’d open the door and there would be that ankle-biting dog barking it’s head off. If she was human, I’d say she was screaming bloody murder, but she’s a dog, and “barking bloody murder” doesn’t sound right. Besides, she doesn’t really bark. She yaps. She’s one of those dogs that yaps at everything. We’d always hear her, even before we’d get inside the door. It’s the kind of bark that makes you want to drop-kick her across the room. “Yipyipyipyip!!!Yapyapyapyapyap!!!” Her bark reminds me of Dino from the Flintstones. It’s a contrived bark, and it’s annoying as Hell. It’s a bark that doesn’t quite sound like a dog. Her name is Daisy, but she doesn’t connote any of those images of happiness and simplicity a daisy creates. I think any notions of happiness would be too annoyed with her bark to stick around, anyway. She’s a Chihuahua, which makes her look like a fat tan dachshund with big ears. She’s no longer than eighteen inches, but I think she thinks of herself as a Doberman protecting her territory. She growls at passing traffic, snaps at an outstretched hand and yaps at a stranger’s voice. “Don’t talk until she sniffs you,” he’d always say. “Let her get acquainted with you.” Wondering what the appropriate waiting time was for Daisy to get acquainted with someone, I’d get tired of the conversation being stifled and would eventually whisper something to him. Daisy would then immediately start yapping with all the fierceness an eighteen inch Chihuahua could muster up. The conversation would be halted for another five minutes until she was finished with her canine tantrum. Suddenly I thought of my sister. She always had to have her way, too. And my sister’s voice is almost as annoying as that damn yapping noise. But this time while I was over he told me said he had to run to the store, so he asked me to stay and “keep Daisy company.” As I stood in the window and watched his fire-engine red Hyundai Scoupe drive him away, Daisy jumped on the back of the couch, poised toward the window. She yapped bloody murder. I sat down in a chair. Daisy sat in the adjacent couch, probably choosing her seat so she’d have a view of the passing traffic she could yap at if she so chose. She stretched out on the couch like a queen, amongst pillows that were bigger than her bed. I thought of my sister again. She then turned her eyes toward me and squinted, as if to say, “ha ha, bitch, I’ve got the couch and you have to sit in a chair.” She put her head down and closed her eyes. I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be her - to have a couch as big as the living room to crawl on to, to have nothing to worry about but the passing traffic. A car turned down the street and started driving toward the house. Daisy picked her head up, looked out the window and started to growl. I attempted to show an ounce of authority to the dog: “Day-zeee,” I said, as if I were actually about to reprimand the thing. She stopped growling and turned her head half way toward me, pausing just for a moment before she turned back and continued to growl at the Buick. I couldn’t see her face, but I’m sure it had a look on it that said, “You bitch, how dare you yell at me... Who are you anyway??” She couldn’t even bother to turn her head around entirely to look at me. I just sat there, looking at Queen Daisy in all her glory. I sat back in the chair and tried to relax. I twisted the ring on my finger. I looked out the window and waited for him to come home. the apartment, by Janet Kuypers “Could you pull out a can of sardines to have with lunch?”, he asked me, so I got up from my chair, put down the financial pages, and walked into the kitchen. The newspaper fell to the ground, falling out of order. I stepped on the pages as I walked away. I realized he hadn’t been listening to a thing I said. He had to look for a job, I had told him before. This apartment is too small and we still can’t afford it. I put in so many extra hours at work, and he doesn’t even help at home. There are dishes left from last week. There is spaghetti sauce crusted on one of the plates in the sink. I opened up the pantry, moved the cans of string beans and cream corn. There was an old can of peaches in the back; I didn’t even know it was there. I found a sardine can in the back of the shelf. I saw him from across the apartment as I opened up the can. “We have to do something about this,” I said. “I can’t even think in this place. I’m tired of living in a cubicle.” He closed the funny pages. “Get used to it, honey. This is all we’ll ever get. You think you’ll get better? You think you deserve it? For some people, this is all they’ll get. That’s just the way life is.” I looked at the can. I looked at the little creatures crammed into their little pattern. It almost looked like they were supposed to be that way, like they were created to be put into a can. The smell made me dizzy. I pushed the can away from me. I couldn’t look at it any longer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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