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Dusty Dog Reviews The whole project is hip, anti-academic, the poetry of reluctant grown-ups, picking noses in church. An enjoyable romp! Though also serious.
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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. |
ISSN 1068-5154
Hair Is, by mary winters
(After reading I Corinthians 13, 1-13)
If I have many profound, deeply affecting talents
but have not hair, somewhere,
even just a little bit,
maybe only three hairs left on my balding head
or the faintest bit of whitish down
evident only in brightest sunlight
to my very dearest friend,
then I am completely bankrupt -
it’s hopeless, I can forget it.
Hair tells the weather; hair mats to frighten dogs;
it will not take no for an answer.
Hair brings home the bacon; it is never bossy.
Hair laughs and cries; hair likes to travel;
also being flattened out in bed.
Hair reaches out to other hair,
it reveals our most subtle and
our most blatant moods, it is single-minded.
Hair would vote Democratic;
it can readily interpret a trend;
it savors the dreadful smell it makes when burning.
Hair is all things to all people.
When I was a child, I was in full support of
hair’s cunning placement on my body.
But now I understand that hair has
an agenda, a plan, a destiny:
to get dark and thick and wiry,
to intoxicate and lure,
to turn this way and that in the wind,
to pull energy direct and unceasing
from the center of the world,
also from the void, and
to gather hands unto it.
So now we see - fresh, healthy breath and gums,
regularly trimmed nails, and
the absence of ear wax will serve,
but the greatest of all is hair.
WeighT, by Marc Swan
I
“My little roly-poly,” he called her
when she was two, three years old
until she was seven, and he found out
he wasn’t the dad, then it was “fatso, big ass,
little piggy,” other names she won’t say.
He still liked to hold her
late at night when everyone else was asleep.
Even today, she can’t sleep
waiting for footsteps -
his foul breath, greasy fingertips
edging under the coverlet;
eyes glazed as he gushed
wet and hard against her thigh,
never inside. “You’re too fat to fuck,” he’d say.
II
She likes to paint pictures, eat toast without butter,
take walks alone in the countryside.
She never married, never had children.
She loves to watch children - laughing children
swinging in the park, being lifted high in the air
by daddies beaming from ear to ear.
III
He got fat and shakes so badly
he can hardly hold the bent spoon he slurps
cereal with through rotten teeth. He steps slowly
wherever he goes, looks at women with children,
children playing, thinks about holding a child,
then moves on.
Process, by mary winters
What cornucopia of trite psycho-babble
produced ~’change is the only constant!!”
When worldly you swore for years:
nothing ever changes,
you know...really.
Until Delphic you found yourself murmuring
after only one glass of wine
New Year’s Eve, 1990:
“This is the decade our parents will die;
we’ll see our very own, very personal
ritual slaying of elders...”
Except we won’t get to do it. Because
yes, virginia, there really are
deus ex machinas,
more than you can possibly imagine:
three parents going, going,
even gone, even rotted clear through
by now - only 1992.
And you thought it was all going to be
gold on a rich, black background
from here on in. When you
haven’t been able to say good-bye.
When you are just beginning to sense,
despite what a doctor might say (
don’t look down now):
everything is communicable.
dysfunctional, by Gabriel Athens
I was watching Oprah today and a woman said she came from a dysfunctional family, that she was beaten when she was little, that her mother wouldn’t tell her who her father was. And I heard another woman on a talk show say that there are so many dysfunctional families that it seems to be becoming the norm - that dysfunctional is becoming functional.
And then I see a commercial on t.v. from the Church of Latter-Day Saints that tells your family to communicate and shows a picture of a man teaching his son to ride a bicycle and I have to leave the room.
And then I watch a movie with a scene where the father hugs the daughter and tells her he loves her and I cry.
I was working in another room while my parents were watching t.v. in the living room. They must have heard a stat that said one in five children are abused. I’m the second child of six in my family.
Well, I heard my mother say to my father, gee, that would mean that one of the kids was abused. And then she said, I didn’t abuse any of them, did you? And father said, no.
I think that’s when he proceeded to say that that figure is probably for lower class families, and not families like ours.
And I just stopped my work for a moment. A moment of peace. A memorial, you could say.
He doesn’t think I know. But I do. How about sexual abuse? Yes, I remember. Twenty years later, and the thought still brings tears to my eyes. How about emotional abuse? Yeah, I’d call what you’ve done to me abuse. You still have to power to make me cry at the drop of a hat.
And there is a lot about you I’m sure I don’t know.
According to my figures, we’re above average.
i listen, by Alexandria Rand
It always seems when we’re together
you ramble on and on
and I just sit and listen.
You’ve often asked my why I don’t talk as much,
or why I bother to listen to you.
I want to tell you why.
I like to hear your voice.
Your accent turns me on.
And every once in a while
you say something that I like to hear.
I like to watch the look in your eye
when you talk.
I like the emotion that wells up inside you.
There are two tiny little candle flames-
one in each of your eyes.
They flicker they jump
from one subject to the next.
The flame in your eye is hypnotizing.
Your emotion stirs me
and the love you possess
moves me to tears.
Besides,
I don’t have to say anything.
I am content with merely
looking at your face and hearing your voice.
I, like you, can tell you how I feel
without saying a word.
right there, by your heart, by Janet Kuypers
I
i had a dream the other night that i was in a
bathroom, sitting on the toilet seat, i think it was
the one in florida, but it could have been anywhere.
it was a small bathroom. i was stretched over
this seat, and i think the lid was up. i was naked. there
was a wall right next to me, and i felt cramped,
like i couldn’t move. and then kurt was there, with me,
in the bathroom, naked, standing over me, screwing me.
i was sitting on a toilet seat and he was fucking me,
and in the entire dream i couldn’t get comfortable,
i felt very awkward, it felt like he was pressing
on my chest, i couldn’t breathe, it felt like there was a rock
in my stomach that would stay there forever, but
the entire time i didn’t complain.
II
have you ever had that feeling before, you
know, the one when someone is telling
you something you don’t want to hear, like
if someone was about to tell you that someone
died and you knew what they were going to say
and you still didn’t want to hear it, or if
someone did something to you you didn’t like,
like when you were little and the kids at the
bus stop shot pebbles and spit balls at you every
day because you were smart and you still had
to go to the bus stop every morning and just
try to ignore them? and when that happens
it feels like a medium sized rock just fell
into the bottom of your stomach, and you
don’t want to move because you’re afraid
that the rock will hurt the inside of your stomach
and so you just have to sit there and hope
the rock goes away? or else you get the feeling
in your chest, right between your lungs, it feels
like someone is pressing against the bone there,
right there by your heart, and you’ve got to
breathe, you’re not going to be able to take
that pressure, that force any longer?
III
it had already been a long day, sitting in the back
of someone else’s car for two and a half hours,
knowing that if elaine’s dad wasn’t such a slow driver
it would have taken less than two hours. I was trying to get
home so i could make it on time for the christmas party
but still have enough time to pack for my early
flight the next morning. airports have become a second
home to me. so i walked in through the melon doors
only three hours late, those melon doors that scream
of the perfect fifties home, of the perfect fifties family
that everyone believed we were. i walked through the
doors, sarah hugged me, and dad walked into the
hallway from the kitchen. wait a minute. he was
supposed to be on the other side of the country... well,
don’t ask questions, just act happy to see him. so i smiled
and laughed, until he hugged me. then the rock settled
in. he didn’t have to say a word. my mind started
going through the checklist: okay, what would have
brought him back here? who was the one who had died?
i said ‘grandma’ before he did. i cried for fifteen
minutes, wiped the tears from my neck, my ears, and
i got ready for the party, trying not to move too quickly,
so not to disturb the rock.
IV
i got the mail, like i do any other day, and by then i had
almost forgotten about waiting for the test results. i
was just getting the mail, like normal. when i saw the
letter from the hospital that day in that little metal
box the pressure on my chest came rushing back like
wind when it rushes around the side of a building and
it takes you entirely by surprise and you lose your
breath trying to live through it. what if the test results
said i was sick, and i wasn’t going to get any better?
i had too many symptoms, the results had to show
something. something, damnit. maybe if i never
opened the letter, i’d never have to deal with
illness. maybe then i’d live forever. but i opened the
letter. it said the doctors still know nothing. i
just wanted to know what was wrong with
me. why i wasn’t perfect. the pressure on my
chest didn’t go away when i threw the envelope
on the ground by the mailbox. i walked upstairs.
V
i needed to talk to someone, so i threw my bathrobe on the
floor, pulled on some sweats, and walked over to his
apartment. steve was supposed to be coming home
from work soon, and i needed to talk to somebody,
i couldn’t keep everything bottled in. i must have looked
like an idiot standing on his stairs looking like i
was about to cry. i felt like an idiot there, too, not
knowing why the rock in my stomach wasn’t going away.
i wanted to ask him if he ever felt that rock, felt
that pressure, even if there didn’t seem to be a
reason for it at all except for maybe life itself, which
everyone was supposed to manage through
anyway, i mean, everyone has stress, what’s your
problem if you can’t take it? i wanted to figure it out,
whatever the hell it was that was bothering me, i
really wanted to. this panic was driving me crazy, and i
couldn’t even explain why i was panicked in the first
place. i didn’t tell him i wanted to light a candle and some
incense and just curl up in the corner of my bed,
holding one of my pillows, probably the black one,
and cry for a very long time. i sat there in his
apartment when he got home, but i didn’t speak. what
could i say? that the rock in my stomach wasn’t going
away?
VI
i don’t know how many times the idea of seeing him
went through my mind. at least once a week i’d imagine
a scene where he’d confront me, and i’d somehow
be able to fight him back, to show him that he didn’t
bother me any more, to show him that the rock wasn’t
there any more. to somehow be able to prove that
i wasn’t a victim any more. i was a survivor. that’s
what they call it now, you see, survivor, because
victim sounds too trying for someone who has been
raped. so i keep saying i’m over it but i keep imagining
mark all over again, not raping me, but following me
on the street, coming to my door with flowers, or
sending me a valentine. but once, when i saw him
walking out of a record store as i was walking in, the
rock fell so hard that i thought i was going to be sick
right there by the cash register, right there by those
metal things at the doorway that beep when you
try to take merchandise out of the store, you know
what those things are, i just can’t think of what
they’re called. but if i did that, then he’d know he was still
winning, to this day. how many years has it been? how
many years since he did that to me? how many years
since i’ve been wanting to fight him, since i’ve been
feeling that rock in my god-damned stomach?
i managed to hide my face from him in the store so he
didn’t see me as he walked out. when i saw he was
gone, i wondered why i still felt the pressure in my
chest. i thought the pressure was going to turn
my body inside-out. i reached for my heart, grabbed
at my shirt. maybe the pain was always there, right there,
by my heart, but i try not to think of it until i
go through times like those.
sometimes the light, by Alexandria Rand
Sometimes 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.
a letter, by Janet Kuypers
I was looking through some old photographs of mine the other night, and I came across a photo of you. A snapshot, by the pool in Florida. Years ago. Those were the days when you thought you were cool, when another gang broke your ribs, when the cops chased you down the street for trying to steal a car. They caught you because you slipped in your two hundred dollar boots. You had to sell your stereo to pay your lawyer.
And things do change. You wanted to go back to school, you worked full time, you kept away from the drugs. And your back hurt all the time, you felt too old, you wanted to start over again.
I still remember that photograph. I was dating you then, but you never told me you had another girlfriend. She wrote me a month later, telling me you were engaged.
It’s funny to see that I lasted longer than her, that I still have a hold over you.
Did you ever give her an engagement ring? Was it an emerald, too?
I remember once, in the hall, after you took a drag from your cigarette, leaned over the pool table and made your shot, you told me that you would do anything for me. I asked if you’d give me the diamond earring in your ear. You remember the one, the one a married thirty-five year old woman gave you when you were sleeping with her. Yeah, that one. And you told me that if I needed it, you’d sell it and give me the money.
Christ, the pool table, and the pool cue that was your grandfather’s that you got after he died. You loved him, and he wasn’t even related to you, your step mother’s dad. But you never liked your family.
You never liked anyone, unless it was convenient. You never liked anyone, unless you weren’t alone.
Someone told me last spring that they heard you say, “Have you ever decided that you wanted something so much, but you knew you could never have it?”
They thought you were talking about me. I think you were, too.
Yes, it was nice to see a change, it was nice to see you sitting in the mornings with your coffee and your cigarette drawing in your book, creating. You have potential, you’ve got a genius inside you that’s been beaten up by too many gangs, screamed at too many times by your family, hardened by too many pains, hurt by too many insane nights.
You once knew a pharmacist, one who liked to steal stuff and mix it with anything else he could find. You befriended him quickly. You think I don’t know these things, but I do.
You think I don’t know you, but I do.
You used to always tell me I was the only person that knew you. You wanted someone to talk to, and you wanted it to be me.
And then we’d argue, and you’d get defensive, and the first thing out of your mouth would be, “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me.”
Don’t try to separate yourself from me. You can’t do it.
It’s not love. You should know that by now. It’s two people, from two different countries, from two different worlds, who can read each other’s minds.
Less than a week after you stormed out of the bar, someone came up to me and asked, “Why are you still wearing his emerald ring?”.
I shouldn’t have to explain. They might not understand, but you do.
When you stormed out of the bar a few months ago, I didn’t think you were leaving town. But you were gone. Damn, you’re such a hot head. But I know you. A few months will pass, maybe a year, and you will call again. You will say you want to be friends. But it’s more than that.
It’s like we’re connected. It just feels different when we’re in the same room together.
And when you can’t stand it anymore, when you need that feeling again, you’ll call.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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what is veganism?
A vegan (VEE-gun) is someone who does not consume any animal products. While vegetarians avoid flesh foods, vegans don’t consume dairy or egg products, as well as animal products in clothing and other sources.
why veganism?
This cruelty-free lifestyle provides many benefits, to animals, the environment and to ourselves. The meat and dairy industry abuses billions of animals. Animal agriculture takes an enormous toll on the land. Consumtion of animal products has been linked to heart disease, colon and breast cancer, osteoporosis, diabetes and a host of other conditions.
so what is vegan action?
We can succeed in shifting agriculture away from factory farming, saving millions, or even billions of chickens, cows, pigs, sheep turkeys and other animals from cruelty.
We can free up land to restore to wilderness, pollute less water and air, reduce topsoil reosion, and prevent desertification.
We can improve the health and happiness of millions by preventing numerous occurrences od breast and prostate cancer, osteoporosis, and heart attacks, among other major health problems.
A vegan, cruelty-free lifestyle may be the most important step a person can take towards creatin a more just and compassionate society. Contact us for membership information, t-shirt sales or donations.
vegan action
po box 4353, berkeley, ca 94707-0353
510/704-4444
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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.
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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
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MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)
functions:
* To show the MIT Food Service that there is a large community of vegetarians at MIT (and other health-conscious people) whom they are alienating with current menus, and to give positive suggestions for change.
* To exchange recipes and names of Boston area veg restaurants
* To provide a resource to people seeking communal vegetarian cooking
* To provide an option for vegetarian freshmen
We also have a discussion group for all issues related to vegetarianism, which currently has about 150 members, many of whom are outside the Boston area. The group is focusing more toward outreach and evolving from what it has been in years past. We welcome new members, as well as the opportunity to inform people about the benefits of vegetarianism, to our health, the environment, animal welfare, and a variety of other issues.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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
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Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA
“Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family.
“Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.
want a review like this? contact scars about getting your own book published.
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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, butt-munch. Tough guy. This is how to win the editors over.
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.
You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.
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.
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.
ccandd96@scars.tv
Publishers/Designers Of
Sponsors Of
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!
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...
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.
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...
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.
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.
the unreligious, non-family oriented literary and art magazine
Scars Publications and Design
http://scars.tv
Children, Churches and Daddies magazine
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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
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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.