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 28

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

ISSN 1068-5154

contributors in this issue: larry blazek mark blickley gerald burns alan catlin greg evason eugene gryniewicz robert kimm bill koplitz Janet Kuypers c ra mcguirt mukha errol miller richard king perkins II raymond tod smith george spelvin tolek cheryl townsend mary winters

contributors to insert: “john” alan catlin ora wilbert eads Janet Kuypers alex rand george spelvin paul weinman mary winters (down in the dirt)

quoted as, by cheryl townsend “I noticed she was naked from the waist down and it aroused me.” Tammy died 2 months after her third birthday from massive internal injuries and her mommies boyfriend was found drinking beer out of silver bullets, by C Ra McGuirt, with phillip d. caron wolf girl used her teeth. it hurt, but i had agreed to allow it, so i clutched the bedposts, & hoped that the all-night 7-station gas stop would not lock the beer cooler before the moon went down.

the irony, by Janet Kuypers The wretched irony becomes apparent. You twitch and climb through the entangling web crawl through the intricate maze to learn that you will never reach the end but a terrifying minotaur only the center the heart where the most horrifying evil preys the towering walls grow arms an infinite sum of groping overpowering arms there is nowhere to run and hide as the walls stretch taller touching the sky they creak and move closer while the arms reach and pull you the tentacles grab you and try to destroy you the sky turns a deep dark black an infinite black there is no hope the solid ground begins to melt as the blades of grass become sharpened knives cutting slicing the treacherous teeth of the animal below suck you down and consume you there is nowhere to go but forward as you writhe in agony go forward forward with the only hope that soon the monstrous insidious nightmare the desperation the pain will end

For a commemorative Plaque, by Mary Winters It was here in this city of Newark a courthouse worker held her hands over her ears all day long against constant emergency, endless gnashing of sirens; bomb crew outside the window twice a week; police horses squeezed together ten abreast around the courthouse door; sign above announcing “Police Week” sponsored by county official under indictment. It was here in this city she saw alarms in every store, owners inside on ladders watching from every corner - everyone under arrest as soon as they touch the shoddy stuff; rainwater red in the gutter from unpaved streets nearby. It was here in this city the bus system was shut down - keep people from gathering to talk.

masquerade, by alex rand You asked me to the masquerade and I willingly complied but I’m tired of wearing this dress for the feathers in my costume won’t stop licking my face and you cannot see the tears falling behind my mask - When you seethe price they pay I’m sure you’ll come and join the masquerade, you say but the price is too high for I don’t want to wear a mask with you, and I would only hope that I don’t have to.

poco the clown, by larry blazek Come, sit on the nice clown’s lap Lets play a new game I’m sorry that I hurt you don’t cry I’ve got a present for you see, It’s a nice tie Let me put it on for you

Dead Black Child with a Bicycle Before the Underpass, by alan catlin In the distance, the overweight woman is running, waving her arms in the air, no one can hear her desperation, the wailing. the hysterical cries, up the road, the small ones are riding their two wheelers as fast as they can, rumps high in the air, excited eyes, wide, fearful. Overhead, cars are crossing the overpass, are cresting the sloping humps of a Sunrise Highway, shooting down the Merrick Road spur where the Sunrise Bowl flashing neon sign is missing an R, is missing an L. Down below, by the side of the road, is the bent frame of the bicycle and the dead one lying as if asleep, his white eyes open, staring up into a cloudless sky.

African Insomnia, by Mark Blickley African Insomnia     I’m tired and I hate the daylight. This strange sun reflecting off the white djellabas irritates me. It lights up a city of men tugging at their genitals, smiling toothless smiles. It shows dogs and children, bone pressing against skin, begging for relief. The sun releases the warm smell of urine and I hate its familiarity. Sunshine gives clear, ugly faces to the staccato voices echoing through the narrow and filthy streets. It is impossible to hide anything under that sweet burning Moroccan sun. I feel exposed.     Each day I amuse myself sketching until darkness frees me from an imaginary world that hides me from the sun. The thick violent sunset is my signal a multi-colored alarm that assures me it’s safe to leave the expensive hotel room.     The evenings are cool by the sea so I follow the salt scent for a quarter of a mile until I stand on the beach. The growing darkness makes the people handsome. Eyes dominate. They make me feel secure. As long as I don’t have to squint at the sun, which impairs my reading of men’s eyes, I feel safe. At night the only reflections are friendship or danger, not white djellabas.     I listen to the waves slapping the beach. Women in veiled burnooses file past me clutching their small sons and staring at their feet. I smile at the women. Their silhouettes against the horizon turns them into phantoms, insuring them of a most respected position within the night.     The ocean sounds and phantoms become too familiar so I walk up to the boulevard just as the night lamps snap on. I love the lamps because unlike the sunlight it throws everything into shadow.     The boulevard is stretched with brightly lit cafes housing lazy men and frightened tourists. I feel sick when I see a table of my tourcompanions. They’re caressing their cameras and huddling around the candle burning on their cafe table as if insisting that the flame and familiar bodies offer some sort of protection. I spit, quickly turn my head, and cross the street.     The winding street to the medina is steep and though it’s larger than any other road in the city, it’s a slow walk because of the crowds. The odor of raw sewerage is carried by the sea breeze and I like the contradiction of the two smells. I bump into many men who curse me and flash their teeth. I pause, stare into their faces, and continue undisturbed.     Children spot me. The smaller ones fleece the crowd using mirrors. When they find a careless foreigner with a bulge in his back pocket they signal to their comrades for help. Soon a half-dozen desperate children run around me, hoping to distract me long enough for one of them to lunge at my wallet.     I am amused by their ritual and pretend not to notice the small hand sliding across my buttock. I am ashamed of the boy’s lack of skill. Like an annoyed jackass I swiftly snap my leg back, creating a thud as my shoe connects with a boy’s face. A scream, some swearing, and four more blocks until the medina.     The entrance to the medina has competing merchants in blue jeans squatting in stalls next to sleepy old men with henna beards. Violent bartering and the rapid fire tongues of children, along with the shouts of taxi drivers and the hissing of horny young men, produce an uneven din that assaults the ears in waves.     At every step a craftsman pleads to me in broken English to “make good business, my friend.” I walk under the old stone passageway into the medina proper and turn to face the square.     Children running at breakneck speeds and the rich variety of colored djellabas, even more beautiful under the weak night lamps, fill me with an incredible sense of well being until I notice the lack of women.     I spin around, pushed to the side by two male couples with their arms around each other’s waist, giggling. It angers me and I’m tempted to stomp on their bare feet.     Two veiled women approach me but the crowds are so thick that as soon as I feel a tug on my sleeve I defensively cock my fist. When I see they are females it excites me and I lower my arm. Both women hold out a delicate bracelet of ivory and silver. I shake my head but the taller woman with dark circles under her eyes giggles, “Is present. Gift. Go. Gift. Go.” They attach them to my wrists.     Flattered, I thank them and walk away. The women shriek, attracting the crowd’s attention. “Two dirham each!” they cry.     “You said it was a gift!” I yell back an explanation more to the crowd than to the women. The women raise their voices until I can feel the entire medina watching the transaction.     I take a five dirham bill out of my pocket that one of the women snatches out of my hand as the other pulls the gift off my wrists. They disappear into the crowd but I can hear their squeakish voices detailing their triumph. I laugh and am not ashamed of their skill.     I push through the crowd. I’m frightened and it excites me. My pace quickens as I squeeze past a decaying movie house featuring Charlie Chaplin, and rows of dilapidated cafes catering to men playing cards and rolling dice. The stench of excrement mingles with the sweet aroma of mint tea as my fear directs me to a cafe table.     The waiter is offended by my request for wine so I order a mint tea instead. The tea is hot; it burns my lip. Two card players from an adjoining table look over and laugh. I exaggerate my pain and soon the entire table joins in the laughter. A dark man in a frayed sweater signals me to join his table.     The other card players ignore me. I jump into the game after watching four rounds. They play a form of poker using a forty card deck and I lose twenty-three dirham in six hands. I leave without any acknowledgement from the players.     I continue my walk up a dusty hill to the Casbah. The path is dark and I notice teenagers following me. I pick up a large stone as I draw closer to the ancient fort where the city’s poorest live. I can hear the teenagers’ strained whispers. Rats scurry from wall to wall as my footsteps crunch on the cobblestones.     I feel a strange absence of danger. No one approaches me. I’m watched in silence. Exhausted, I head back to the hotel. I toss my rock into the shadows and listen to it scrape across the cobblestones. I feel defeated.     Leaning back on my hotel steps, I look up at the black sky turning blue. The heat of a new sunrise presses against the emptiness inside my chest. Soon I will climb into bed and try to sleep. I’m tired and I hate the daylight. Mark Blickley

The New Father, by Bill Koplitz Space is cherished by coke bottles trading glass and water for emptiness. Looking for night-lights beside a baby’s bed: he cries to carry the crib around his chest. Baby tennis shoes feel concrete, rug shavings.

dad said he wanted to go up, by R. Kimm to the cliffs again, to the top of the cliffs again, go driving, go up there on top where the snakes were, go driving around up there, go out + take a look, go driving for a while, have a looksee, see if he could find anything of interest in his white 62, 63, 69, 74, 79 Chevy (full-sized) pickup with positraction + cap... He said when he went up there the last time alls there were were snakes, rattlesnakes, lying out in the sun sunning themselves as snakes often do in late spring early summer, fall, lying there almost like the corduroy road, bump, bump, bumpity bump, and lookout, look out over the Columbia Gorge to the south, out to the other side where nobody lived and 6-10-20 antelope had been released in the 50s + no one had seen ‘em since

Coney Island Beach People Still Life, by alan catlin On the beach, in the center of a ring of people looking down is a woman whose neck is bent back, eyes rolled all the way inside, thin blue lips touching the lips of the lifeguard, pinching her nose closed, breathing in, short deep breaths, unaware of everything around him but the woman turning cold beneath him. At the edge of the circle a young girl and her brother are tightly holding hands, tears in the corners of their eyes; they know what is happening and what it will mean.

permanent record, by C Ra McGuirt i hear you’re a discipline problem... you’ve already ruined mine: too crazy to sleep without you the books you left were not enough so nothing else to do but make it through the snow for fried cheese & 2 double Stolis at Dalts... christ, can you believe they want 7 bucks for one of these? shit, we could drink good booze all night from a bottle of our very own... but i keep forgetting that you’re not here yet.

gasoline, by Janet Kuypers The stench of gasoline makes me ill as the song pounces through my brain “I want you to want me the way that I want you: and I’m tired of fighting I don’t think I can fight anymore but I have to I can’t let you do this these are my rights and you can’t hurt me like this “Then maybe I’ll just force you” you say I push you away I try to stop you and all I keep hearing is that damn song I can’t escape it “I know that you need me just tell me you want me I want you” I’m too angry to cry and too frightened to scream I shove I move but nothing stops you “You are my sensation a perfect temptation” I wish that song would stop I wish everything would stop your touch scares me and your stare haunts me so I scratch and scream until the novelty is lost for you no I will not tell you I want you for I can’t let you do this these are my rights and you just can’t do this to me

Life begins on rural rt. 9, by Richard King Perkins II away back when, in sw arkansas she lived on one of the high, dark ridges near an old slave bone yard - and in winter even the good cars couldn’t make it up the unpaved, unplowed hill. so when it came time for the jr. high x-mas formal, she and her half twin step brother once removed hiked down the slope out to the main road carrying their all-occasion finest threads, and stood watch for each other as they changed behind rob’s general store. she remembers waiting at the edge of a white road in a hand-me-further-down dress, eyes straining to make out any car familiar in the dimming distance, and now she wonders why she can’t seem to recall who she danced with that night or even if she danced at all.

on the creeping sadness, by Raymond T. Smith     On the way home from rehab, I stopped at Thomas’ Fine Drive-Thru Liquors and bought twelve light beers, determined as hell to keep off the hard stuff. I paid cash and pulled from the window, cracked the top from a can and painted myself back into traffic with the beer feeling cold and good as it went down and slowly to work.     It was a half-hour drive home and I was already six beers closer so I decided to drive a few miles further to Edgy’s Package Hut. I had to go inside this time and came out with another half-case of beers, got back inside the car and the college station was playing John Coltraine, who gave the traffic report, the weather, and a love supreme. When I finally got home, I stacked the beers into a pyramid in the refrigerator and took a warm shower, trying to wash off some of that twelve-step stink. Everything felt all right.     I called Doris on the cordless and told her to go take a flying dive from a train wreck, hung up, called Emily and told her that I was free at last, free at last, to get her ass over quickly. She told me to take a flying dive, so I did, headfirst into the icebox where I found a bottle of red I had stashed. I took it out and found a corkscrew, the only screwing I’d be doing, but that was enough.     I slept a few hours but had the alarm clock set so I could wake up and get drunk again. Still inside that occluded area before the hangover really kicks in, I got drunk fast and kept drinking until I passed out.     Doris showed up sometime, quite drunk herself, apparently having either forgiven me or forgotten our earlier conversation. She had a bottle of pseudo-Russian vodka, but I held firm, trusting my higher power to see me past the temptation of the hard stuff.     Though my supply of higher power wasn’t low, the number of beers     sure seemed to be, so I went ahead and had a vodka and orange juice, insisting that the orange was good for my health. By about the third drink, Doris had her panties on her toes, her dress over her head, and I was swinging for any fence. Only a few pitches in, I was finished, leaving behind all thoughts of baseball and letting go on the translucent turn of cellulite on her thigh. I lit a highly-unfiltered cigarette, fixing myself a fourth drink. As Doris went pee-pee, I knocked over the coffee table trying to reach the telephone before it rang a record tenth time. It was Emily, also drunk, trying to apologize, but I stopped her and told her to save it for someone who gave a screw. She told me she didn’t believe in saving it and that she’d just give it to the first out of work trucker she could find. I said, “Fine.”     Doris came out asking who the hell that had been on the phone, but I told her it was nobody. “Wrong number?~ she asked. “No, wrong night.”     I switched back to beer and Doris switched channels. She left soon enough, though not at all soon enough for me.     By the end of the week, I had quit work, attended two AA meetings drunk, and had made peace with both Emily and Doris. I had decided that all the beer was too sweet on my waistline and switched to Early Days blended. By the end of the weekend, I was bored and full of it, demented by alcohol. I went out for a drive. Two hours later, I was blowing a two-zero on the rectal-scale and got apprehended for D.W.I. The cops called me a no good nigger, even though I am Caucasian, then beat me black and blue with night sticks as if to prove that they were right. Doris got there scant seconds before Emily to bail me out, but, due to their each being charged with assault and battery, we all three called a bondsman together.     So broke, jobless, unrehabilitated, I finally got home again and began in on the Early Days. After feeling sufficiently lubricated, I downed a whole bottle of over the counter sleep-aids that I always kept for such auspicious occasions...and two aspirin as well.     I woke up in the hospital to a dull sense of grief and failure, not for what I had tried to do but that it hadn’t worked. The doctors said that if I kept drinking, I could die. So I settled on suicide the slow way.     When I checked out, with my triglycerides high and my sand stoned heart, I had Doris pull up to the drive-thru at Thomas’ and we bought a half-gallon of gin for medicinal purposes. Feeling sick... of myself, of her, of time and life and my dime store luck, I took the first pull straight from the bottle, knowing full well that the cliche held true: everybody has got to go sometime. I was just getting ready. Raymond T. Smith

untitled, by “Mukha” Our inclinations to ways mature come early, the hard stare of incipient attraction, the coquette’s pose, like pearls about a five-year old’s neck, framing desire, passion’s playmate so obvious. Infatuations with lines grid the adolescent soul with the heavy black demarcations of the blind cartographer (as if even the world could be strutted with linear contraptions). What perversion to pervert meanderings into a lewd, loitering, pants stained obsession; but credit blood singing obstinance and celebrate the flairs of the unseemly, the unceremonial fuckings across equatorial taboos of ignorance breeding rituals.

the hand, by Janet Kuypers the Hand the unknown Hand i’m frightened trembling shaking i move toward it the Hand the mystery entangles me spins my mind curiosity attraction undying i move closer shivering afraid i need the love i feel the lust the Hand i fear but i must know i need to learn the pain the cry i scream i need i want i take a step emotion i’m wild i’m no longer human i need i want the Hand it reaches out for mine.

like daggers, by alex rand I can’t think of anything else. like daggers speeding slicing the air the thoughts race through my mind. I can’t help but think of his stunning eyes his sensitive touch my weaklessness. How he’s torn my life in two.

sometimes the light, by Janet Kuypers Sometime the understanding Travels into the realms of the unknown All we can do is hope search dream Because we will never find. Sometimes the light is not enough.

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.