the house of the forest, by Janet Kuypers

a voice
sent the letters
over the bush
“the dogs shall eat
the little hatchet”
he made pomegranate
they search for bread
from early morning until midday
two thousand tin cans
bronze for the things
“it is his angel
under the fig tree”
put away the gods

Cinderella in Afghanistan, by David Cooper

This is how Afghani women tell
the story of Cinderella. To start with, she
had only one step-
sister who together with the step-mother tried to
trip her up, hold
her back, sabotage
her love life. Despite
their best efforts Cinderella got
engaged and at her wedding feast they made
one last spiteful attempt to bring her to
ruin. They served her a dish of
turnips, which
all Afghanis know is
a powerful laxative. Indeed later that
night Cinderella awoke to find her-
self in a strange house and in
need of a W.C., having neglected
to ask her husband, who now was
snoring beside her, where the out-
house was located or the chamber-
pot was kept. After searching and not
finding, she gently pulled
off her husband’s
pajama bottoms, shat
in the seat of
the garment, and gently put
them back on him. In the
morning he awoke and
terrible embarrassed begged
Cinderella not to tell
a soul he had been
incontinent on his
wedding night, swearing, “I’ll
obey your every
command for the rest of
our married lives of
only you’ll keep
this secret.” About
a week later step-mom and step
sister came by to see if and how
well their plan had workd. “So, how do
you find married life? How does you husband treat
you?” they asked, squatting on cushions and carpets, over
tea and pastries. “Splendid, really,” Cinderella replied, “he’s
a real doll, we couldn’t be happier.” After showing them
out she rolled on the floor laughing her-
self to sleep, dreaming of further revenge. When step-
sis got engaged, Cindy fgiured
turn about was fair play, so at the
wedding she served up
the same turnip dish, which had
the expected result. Finding herself in
the same predicament Cinderella had been in, the step-
sister, who was not as clever, shat in her husband’s
boot. In the morning when the
groom discovered what his bride had
done he sent her packing back
to her mother. And
Cinderella’s two step-
kin lived miserable ever after.

writing your name, by Janet Kuypers

I sat there
in the shade
I took
a stick
I wrote
your name
in the ground
preacher says
the #1 sin
is lust
then I am
condemned
to Hell
for
I
want
you
and I
don’t care
what
preacher says
for if
the elements
wash away
your name
tonight
I will
be back
tomorrow
to write it
again

spring afternoon, by John Sweet

walks down to the river
with her children
on a spring afternoon
holds them both
underwater
until they stop struggling
counts to one hundred
just to be sure
lets go
and watches their bodies
spin slowly away
wonders what to have
for dinner

Class of ‘86, by Mary Winters

it is terrifying to see
one of your own
go down the drain someone
you went to law school with
who would therefore
be as sane and rational
as a person you could find
like yourself
his wife turned up
at Legal Services one day
no money two kids
she wanted a divorce
because all of a sudden
he started beating her up
at the hearing on the
restraining order he cursed out
the judge then kicked down
his door which is
not considered good form
in any event
next we heard he was living
in a Y in a bad part of town
where he dropped a teenage boy
off a balcony for making noise
who has not thought of doing
such things but we do not
of course act on our impulses
some say drugs were involved
there has got to be a reason
he is in jail on a murder charge
and we (at least for today)
are not

confident women, by Janet Kuypers

I met up with an old friend of mine
for drinks last week. I knew her
in high school, although we weren’t
close friends then. In those days she
needed therapy, had problems with drugs,
I think, or else it was just family
problems. I was a bit insecure myself,
shy, meek, scared of life. Since those days
we matured, we’re now more independent,
self-confident, self-assured women.
It was good to see her again. She
just came back from camping in
Australia; although physically I had
gone nowhere, we both had our stories
to tell over a bottle or two of wine.
And we gossiped, she told me of the
handsome Australian man she fell for,
I told her of the roller-coaster I call
my romantic life. And we laughed.
And then the gossip changed, her
voice lowered, and sounding stern
but quiet, she told me of how a man
broke into her apartment one night
last summer and he tried to rape her,
and after kicking and screaming
in her underwear she managed to
break free and her attacker escaped.
She told me they found the man,
and the trial is scheduled for later
in the month. And she sat there, with
her wine glass in her hand, looking
so confident, as if she knew she
won this battle. Trying not to sound
corny, I told her I could give her
a hug. And she leaned on my shoulder,
and she cried, hiccuping as she
tried to catch her breath. They
would make her recount everything
on the stand, she said, and the defense
lawyers would try to make her sound
promiscuous because she slept
alone in her underwear. I told her I
would go with her to the trial. I told her
she is winning by speaking out.
Self-assured women. Confident women.
How confident are we supposed to be?

day lily, by Michael Estabrook

I think the duck is frozen
into the ice over the lake.
Perhaps it fell asleep, stupid
duck, overnight and the ice
closed in around it, trapping
it. But no, it stretches out
its pretty wings, flutters
them, stands up and waddles
away, annoyed, glancing
back at me, as I shuffle
gingerly towards it trying not
to slip and fall down. If it
could talk I suspect it would
say, “thanks for bothering
me, ass-hole. Can’t you see I
was as conmfortable as a day
lily on a sunny spring day?”

even if they’re eating seeds i put out, by Mary Winters

I am a mild-mannered, slow-
moving person and I have
an amazing rapport with animals.
Dogs, hamsters, even fish.
(Not horses because I don’t think
they’re particularly bright;
you’re standing beside them
and they lose their focus
for a moment, a thousand
pounds lands on you.)
Last summer our neighbor’s cat
came to our yard when
they were doing errands.
I told Ralph if he was lonesome
he could stay with us;
why didn’ he lie down
on the drivewaywhere it was warm
and take a nap. Which he did,
you should have seen
the look on my husband’s face.
But I have scared millions
of birds into flight.
Crows, blue jays, cowbirds
- something about my presence.
Off they go.
Just my face at the window.

wedding lost, by Janet Kuypers

And she sees herself in the
passenger seat at night, her fiance
beside her, and the lights seem
all too bright, and the rain seems
all too loud, like the thunder of
soldiers running across a field to
war, swept with the drunken feeling
of patriotism, charging toward their
unknown enemy. And so it happened
that night, the lights got brighter,
the car started to spin, and then
she started to dream.
And she sees herself at the
end of the church, the bridesmaids
have just walked down the
aisle, the music changes for her.
She feels swept with the euphoria
of love, and she begins to walk,
but she falls, the bouquet falling
from her hand. And in slow motion,
white roses and lilies
scatter along the aisle. And she
looks up, and the groom is gone,
and the ground is the ashes
of the house they bought together
after they were married. She
sits up, and she’s at the desk at the
bank, trying to get the loan for the
house. His job is secure, we’re young,
nothing could go wrong. Good thing
he wore the blue tie to the bank, and
not the red one. And she sees herself
waking up from sleep, the oxygen
pipe still under her nose, her husband
there, tie in hand, asking if she’d like
to hold their baby. But she
could have sworn she heard the
baby stop crying. And she panics.
And then she wakes up, her head is bobbing,
but now she’s back, back at the
hospital, looking at the tubes running
out of her fiance’s arm.

my dad’s name was bob, by Michael Estabrook

I’m in the old house the one I grew up in on
Northfield Avenue, but I’m all grown up now,
and visiting my mother I suppose, she’s living
there still by herself, and I’m down in the
basement, and my father’s workbench is still
there, strewn with tools, tools all over the
bench and the floor and around the bench, but
the tools are wrenches and pipes cutting tools,
and pipes, and huge nuts and bolts, not the
tools of a car mechanic, not my Father’s tools.
And the clothes washer and drier are still there,
and across from the in the corner where the
furnace used to be is a closet door, I open it
and it’s filled with paper bags and toweld and
canned goods, and there’s spiders in there
too, of course. The place, the whole place, is
a real mess and I’m dying to clean it up. I had
cleaned it up so often as a kid, it was my job,
what I could do well, I had a system. I look
across and there on top of the old dented
metal cabinet way in the back are some
crumpled up blue coveralls like the kind car
mechanics wear, and my heart jumps, maybe
those are my Dad’s coveralls stuffed back in
there like that for all these last 30 years. So I
reach back and pull them out, they are stiff
and terribly wrinkled, and they have dried grease
on them. I smell them but they don’t smell like
him, they smell dusty. I look for the little white
patch above the shirt pocket where the name
should be, and I find that it’s faded, I hold it
under the light bulb and see the name Jim.

the woman who loves pain calls me, by John Sweet

the woman who loves pain
calls me from the hospital
she says her husband
put her there
but it was her own fault
now she knows better
when she calls her house
another woman answers
but she knows
there’s a reasonable
explanation
she says she still loves him
and that this is
the only thing that matters
i ask her not to call me
again

THE BABY EGG, by Edward Faine

Sometimes I’d ask Mother where I came from and she’d say, “Go ask Daddy.” Then he’d tell me to ask her. I wondered if they really knew. The other kids made fun of me ‘cause I didn’t. The oldest Smith boy, Billy, teased me all the time. “I-know-and-you-don’t. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.” His brother Jimmy teased me, too. “Bet ya think the stork brought ya?”
“There’s no storks around here,” I’d say.
Storks lived far away, at least I knew that. Mother’d told me about storks but not about where I came from. Maybe she was hiding something. Maybe I wasn’t her little boy after all. Maybe she found me on the porch like Billy said and didn’t want to hurt my feelings. But I wanted to know, so I asked her again. “Billy says I’m not your little boy and that’s why you won’t tell me where I come from.”
“That’s not true,” Mother said, stomping her foot real hard. “You just tell Billy you came from the hospital, you hear.”
When I told him I came from the hospital he laughed and acted smarty-pants. “All babies come from the hospital but that’s not where they come from.”
Jimmy added, “Babies are born in the hospital so doctors and nurses can take care of them. You sure are stupid, Ned.”
“Am not. I saw your baby sister come home from the hospital wrapped in blankets. So, don’t call me stupid.”
I didn’t like the Smith brothers when they made fun of me. I went home and told Mother I wasn’t going to eat supper until she told me where I came from. She sent me to my room.
When Daddy came home, they came to my room and sat on the bed. Mother said, “We didn’t tell you where you came from because we didn’t think you’d understand. Now that you’re a big boy going-on six, it’s time you knew.
“You didn’t come from the stork and nobody dropped you on the front porch. You came from me and Daddy. Six years ago we went to the hospital and that’s where you were born. The doctors and nurses took care of you, fed you, put baby clothes on you and then we came home.
“The hospital gave us a birth certificate. See, here it is. It’s got your baby footprints on it and your name’s on it, too. Daddy keeps it in his desk and you can see it anytime you like.”
“Why did Billy and Jimmy laugh when I told them I came from the hospital?”
“I don’t know, dear. They were born in a hospital, too.”
“How did I get born?”
“You grew from a little baby egg inside my belly. Remember when we went to Grandma’s house and saw Aunt Frida? She was real big, remember? Well, that’s how I looked before you were born. You were in my belly.”
“How’d I get out?”
“You came from between my legs.”
I wondered why she hadn’t told me that before. I wouldn’t have sounded so stupid. I couldn’t wait to tell the Smith brothers.
Down at the creek the next afternoon I told them where I came from. They didn’t say anything, they just kept throwing stones in the creek. I asked if they came from between their mother’s legs and they didn’t answer. Finally, Billy said, “We came from mummy’s tummy, that’s where, not from her legs.”
“I didn’t say from her legs, I said between them.”
“Don’t matter none,” Jimmy said. “Maybe we all come from different places. Help me throw this log into the creek, will ya?”
After that, the Smith brothers didn’t talk much about where I came from. But I thought about it more than ever. If I came from between Mother’s legs, I must have come out of her poop. No wonder she went to the hospital. The doctors had to clean me off so I could grow up. If that’s the way it was, I wondered why daddies never had babies. I pooped and so did Daddy. I asked Mother, “Does Daddy go number two like you?”
“Why are you always asking these kinds of questions? Don’t you want to know why the sky is blue? Or why birds sing? Of course Daddy goes number two and you know it.”
“Do I go number two like Daddy?”
“Of course. Now go play with your trains.”
So maybe I could have a baby, too. Maybe I already had one and didn’t know it. Maybe there was a baby egg in my poop every morning. I never looked, I just flushed it down the toilet.
Mother should’ve told me this stuff but she was like most big people. They told you little things „ about numbers and all „ and keep big things to themselves. They did it to look smart in front of us little kids. For the first time, though, I had learned a big people’s secret „ babies came from poop. And I was going to prove it and tell the other kids.
That evening I got a stick and hid it behind the toilet. After I went number two the next morning, I poked the poop in the bowl with my stick. I didn’t find anything. Maybe I had to eat something special. Mother told me she drank lots of milk before I was born. So I put lots of milk on my cereal every morning after that. Mother said milk would make me grow up big and strong. I didn’t care about that, I wanted to have a baby. I wasn’t having any luck, though.
Every morning I knocked my poop apart with my stick but I never found anything that looked like a little baby egg. I found pieces of corn and stringy things but no baby. Maybe I wasn’t eating the right kind of cereal. Shredded wheat biscuits looked like birds’ nests, maybe that’s what I needed to help the baby egg grow. Every morning, I had shredded wheat with lots of milk but still nothing happened. Maybe the Smith brothers were right, only mommies could have babies. Then it finally happened.
One morning I beat the stool real hard with my stick. There, in the middle, floating in a little sack was a baby egg. It had two little arms and legs. I rushed out of the bathroom, got a scooper but when I got back, Mother was standing there holding my stick. “What are you doing, Ned?”
“Nothing .”
“Yes you are. I don’t want to see you playing with your poop again. And flush the toilet when you’re done.”
When she turned to flush the toilet, I yelled, “Don’t! Please don’t! You’ll hurt it!”
“Hurt what?” she said, as she hit the handle.
“You did it,” I bawled. “You flushed the baby down the toilet.” I ran into the living room, dived on the sofa and hid my head under a pillow so she wouldn’t see me crying.
She removed the pillow from my head, turned me around and ordered, “Sit up and behave. Whatever are you talking about?”
“The little baby egg in my poop,” I screamed. “It was the first one I found. And it was alive. It had little arms and everything. I told you not to flush it down the toilet.”
“I do declare! What will you think of next! There was no baby in the toilet. Whatever made you think that?”
“You told me babies come from poop.”
“I told you no such thing and you know it.”
“Yes you did. You told me I came from between your legs.”
“Yes...you came from between my legs but...you didn’t come out in poop. You...you came out of my special baby hole. All -babies come out of their mothers’ baby hole when they’re born.”
“Does Daddy have a baby hole?”
“No, silly. Only mommies have baby holes. Like mommy chickens „ hens „ you know how hens lay eggs? Well, it’s like that, only you didn’t have a shell. We’ll go to Farmer Boll and ask him if we can watch a hen lay an egg. Then you’ll understand. Okay?”
I wished she’d told me all these things right from the start. I wouldn’t have looked so stupid or done stupid things. Still, I wondered if she was telling me another story. After all, I saw a little baby egg in my poop before she flushed it down the toilet. I’d look for another one when I got the chance. Maybe I was different somehow.
I wondered what else she wasn’t telling me.

Edward Faine

Route 47-A, by David Staton

Route 47-A

Route 47-A slips through the Wizner Valley before hooking into l-15 at Siler on one end and Route 111 in Gabner at the other. Two country lanes ferry tourists past quaint houses, a scenic river known for its steelhead, the Glenn Creek Steam Locomotive Museum and an umber-colored covered bridge. The same road carries other drivers past seasonal roadside fruit stands, low-lying pasture land and crops. For valley residents, the path brings them to jobs and houses in Jefferson, Siler and Brouchard counties. They call 47-A the main road.
People who live in the valley don’t care for living along the main road. Out-of town gawkers craning for a view of the Wizner either tied up traffic or, racing through on their way to a connecting highway, left red and brown fur humps of deer, raccoon and skunk mashed into the road. And the bait-and-beer shops and the taverns - the C’mon Inn, the Evergreen, the Rusty Reel - turned the asphalt into a hot rod daddys’ delight on Friday and Saturday nights with tail pipe sparks casting orange stars into the black. The corrugated guard rails separating river and road were splashed with blazes of GTO yellow, Mustang red and Super Nova black from drag racers who couldn’t keep it between the lines.
If somebody got off the main road to go into Gabner they’d be on Sixth Street and motor by a handful of banks, a few cafes and filling stations, a half dozen stores, a dress shop, three groceries and four churches, during its eight-block run through the heart of downtown. Seventh Street, headed the other way, they’d find pretty close to a mirror image; a flat, gray, squat view.
Gabner was more than a wide spot in the road, but not by much. Maybe a double wide spot in the road. Most all the storefronts and what industry that was there seemed to have made some sort of unspoken agreement to stick to some kind of bad dress code. Most buildings looked to have been poured right out of a cement mixer, the rest of them looked as if they were made from cardboard and popsicle sticks. And the houses were a big vat of Quaker oats shaped into doughy boxes where people slept and ate. Brown and gray. Low and squat. It all kind of slipped into the road, slipped into the light posts, slipped into the sky. A brown paper bag of a town.
One main street into Gabner. One out. Both of them cross the river, which divides Gabner East and West. Street names of dead presidents, old money and freshwater fish snake north toward the foothills and south to farming communities.
Mostly what folks would see, or what they’d later remember seeing, were all the middle-aged men in khaki work shirts, Red Wing engineer boots and bright, blue jeans sitting under store canopies and on the post office steps, leaning against mail drop boxes at midday cradling bags of popcorn. A relaxed flow of yellow nuggets and Styrofoam cups of coffee moving from tattered leathery hands to Polident smiles. Usually the clumps of sway-backed men were surrounded by pigeons, stooping, pecking and pawing at the kernels that missed mouths between preening their gray, watery rainbow bands.
Most of the men had lived in Gabner all their lives. But they hadn’t always lived on the main road. They’d had to move there when Southern Pacific had moved its operations north leaving them, as they put it, “without a paycheck, a pension or a pot to piss in.”
Along 47-A, rent was cheap. Most of them had been at work for the railroad for so many years that the noise from the passing cars didn’t bother them; your hearing usually started to go bad at the S.P. switchout and loading station right after your back went.
People passing through could still see the old station and staging area just off Sixth Street, the yellow Southern Pacific logo big as a house, faded a mousy yellow on one side. A few boxcars, graying wooden pallets and a collection of fuel tanks cluttered the area and nearby two engines hunkered down, steel dogs in the weeds, rust bubbling and coursing over their hips.
The former railroaders would sit eating and drinking, watching the cars drive by noticing the license plates and the dealer’s frames to see who was coming through. They’d always crack a funny when they saw a plate from out of state or saw somebody with a crazy hairdo. They loved to flick shit at the hippies.
These exchanges were the one way sort. No one driving by ever heard the words the men said. People hardly ever rolled down their windows when they passed through Gabner. One street in. Left. One street out. Gone.
But every once in a while, a strange car would stop at the one-time railroad crossing by the old station, roll down the window and listen for noise coming down the track. Through heavy moist air, the smell of buttered popcorn made their teeth sweat.

David Staton

i just waited, by Janet Kuypers

As I layed in the grass
as the breeze rolled past my face
you slept like a baby
and I just waited
I don’t know what I was waiting for
a change that wouldn’t happen
a smile of appreciation
a warm kiss in the cool afternoon breeze
a change that wouldn’t happen
I could tell you I love you
but I’d be lying to the both of us.
I could tell you I need you
but you wouldn’t listen.
Sometimes I need to sleep
while someone watches over me.
I could just walk away
and let you sleep
yet I can’t help but hope
that soon you’ll arise from your slumber
and actually notice that I’m still there.
And be happy that I’m still there.

A New Divination System, by Gerald Burns

This is an approach I designed to suit myself: but other people seem to like it. I have a handful of small polished green stones, as closely matched as I could find to throw, picking through a large basketful. There’s also a bloodstone (my birthstone), one clear stone, and a black one I found at a Santa Fe bus stop. They’re chosen to be visually and tactilely appealing.
On my knees, usually on carpet, I draw a vertical line with my forefinger an inch or two above the working surface, and a horizontal line through it, like analytic geometry’s axis and abscissa. This defines four areas. I think of the lower left one as earth, the upper left as air, the upper right as fire, and the lower right as water. That puts air and fire above the horizontal line, earth and water below. Just the notion of where these sit is enough, but with a fairly clear idea of where the boundaries are.
Take (if you’re me) five green stones, your birthstone, and the clear (fortune) stone, cupped in both hands, shake and throw them onto the grid. See where they fall. The pattern they make is surprisingly interpretable. Are they close together (often in one quarter, or spread far apart? In which quarter did your birthstone fall? Did the fortune stone fall in the same quarter or another’? Are more stones above the horizontal line or below it’?
Rarely, for life-and-death problems, I’ll substitute the black stone for the clear one. I toyed for a while with a white but no longer have it.
You could, I know, draw the grid with a dagger. I’ve thought of embroidering one on a drop cloth, but decided against it. Magic is partly style, and my stones are designed as a rough and ready method, usable anywhere. The elements are evocative, but tied to no particular system. They are wordless, and in a sense nearly free of concepts, ideals, as usual. Really the pattern made by all the stones is as important as anything else. So, simply to your own taste, I’ve kept it free of ritual formality. Using a birthstone puts you in the system, but in no self-announcing way.
The stones, in a small velvet bag, fit in my pocket with no bulge. Ultimately for me this method works because of how well all the parts sit together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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