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.

Volume 59 Children, Churches and Daddies the unreligious, nonfamily-oriented literary and art magazine ISSN 1068-5154 looking through glass, by daniel crocker On a rose patal bench the world is frosty and stale. Wind numbing diamonds on my cheeks. Webs of smoke - neon tornado spirals coil around my face. Catch a glimpse here and there, snatching bits of it into my mouth and out again into the air. You warm inside and smiling with dandelion friends. Lips moving soundlessly with conversation. Mahogany hair descending faithfully in locks around your flushed cheeks, reminding me of where I sit. For one bare unending moment I see - superimposed - my face on yours - transparent through glass. someone's christ, by john sweet somewhere in new york driving west over the bodies of too many dying children someone's christ nailed to a cross in the median strip and flies crawl across his dead skin crows have pecked his eyes out you ask me to stop so you can take pictures and maybe cut off a finger for a souvenir something to bronze for a good lick charm or a coffee table ornament something to remember this day by all the loose ends, by Janet Kuypers she bought her son enough clothes to keep him tied over for a while, made sure everything was in its place; she went over to her parent's house when she knew they would be out of town for a few days, and only long after she died did her parents come home and find her in the garage. the son missed a few days of school, and all his teacher could think was that his mother bought her son some extra clothes; tied up all the loose ends. ONCE THE GAS WAS POURED IN, by lyn lifshin It came from the bottom and in the terrible struggle, the lights were switched off. No one could see so the strongest people tried to climb higher, realized the higher they got the more air there was. Or they tried to push their way to the door, push their way out. A death struggle. Which is why the youngest and old were always at the bottom i see the scene, by alexandria rand Every once in a while I see the same scene again: I lay in the bed the field of daffodils with you draped over me folding over me conforming to my body like a rustling curtain rippling in the breeze from an open window. I do not sleep. I couldn't, I would never want to. Our contours interlock, our limbs intertwine. Your breath rolls down my stomach like the breeze that brought you to me. I take your hand, and although you sleep you seem to hold me with all the intensity you possess. And with each beat of your heart, with your heat, comes the cool night air in the wind caressing me until the light from the morning sun awakens our silhouette. filled with such panic, by Janet Kuypers i heard a woman jumped from the john hancock building, fifty-something floors. i work on the thirty- second floor of the civic opera building, it's older than the john hancock, and we have regular windows there. you see, the john hancock has bullet-proof windows that don't just open up, whereas we have windows that just slide up and down, like the ones you have in your own home. sometimes i open the window, stick my head out and look at the street. the wind is so strong when you're up that high. sometimes we spit out the window. a few times we threw a paper airplane out the window, watched it soar down wacker drive. i never stick my head out past my shoulders, and i'm one of the more adventurous ones at my office. i can't imagine looking out the window, then going out past the shoulders, opening that window all the way, and just going out. i'd be filled with such panic. i did the wrong thing, i'd think, then i'd struggle to find a ledge to cling to right before i'd start to fall. visiting tennessee part 2 She held her raincoat in one hand, a soggy white carnation in the other. She was crying. A blue plaid shirt several sizes too large ballooned up from a waistband of baggy corduroy pants. Her sneakers were muddied. Brown shoulder length hair lay wet and flat against her head. She removed her glasses and wiped them on her sleeve. After a long pause she walked over to the coffin. Without looking at the corpse she gently placed the carnation on a small table at the foot of the body. She sniffed twice and with her head lowered scuffed over to a chair by Paul's couch. Paul watched her as he licked at the space inside his mouth. "Hi, Miss. It's sort of sad, isn't it?" She looked over at Paul and nodded. "Lots of people were here yesterday. A lot more than today. Funny though, there's a lot more crying today than yesterday. Did you know him?" She tucked her chin into her chest. "That's a swell flower you brought. I'm sure he'd of liked it. What's your name? Excuse me, Miss, what's your name?" Raising her eyes without moving her head she looked angrily at Paul. "What? What are you talking about?" Paul leaned forward on the couch. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and held them out to her. "I'm just trying to make conversation." "I didn't come here to talk!" Paul shrugged, pocketed the cigarettes, and settled back against the cushions. "Just trying to be friendly," he said. "I don't need friends, Mister. Just leave me alone." "Yeah, sure." Paul got up and walked over to the coffin. He eyed Tennessee from top to bottom and then looked over his shoulder at the woman. She was watching. Paul picked up the white carnation from the table and carefully laid it on Tennessee's chest. Again he glanced over at the woman. She was looking down at her hands. A man hurriedly brushed past Paul and snatched the flower off the dead man's chest. "We don't allow objects to be placed inside the casket," snapped the irate usher. "Will you please behave?" "Yeah, sure. Okay. I didn't know." Paul returned to the couch shaking his head. He lit a cigarette. "Do you want me to get you something, Miss? Tissues? Coffee?" She ignored him. "Did you hear me, Miss? Need something? You look like you could use something." The woman pushed her glasses up against the bridge of her nose. "What? Will you be quiet and leave me alone. Just shut up!" "I know you're upset. Try to relax, okay? Are you an actress? There's plenty of actresses around here. I'm waiting for an actor friend of mine. He should be here real soon. Beautiful in here, huh? I'd love to live in a place like this, wouldn't you? Without the bodies, I mean," Paul giggled. "You need some coffee?" The woman hunched lower in the chair, grinding her teeth. "You'll get yours!" she shouted. "You'll get what you deserve!" The usher moved quickly beside her. "Is he bothering you, Ma'am?" The woman looked down at her feet and did not answer. Paul looked up at the usher and shrugged as he puffed on a cigarette. His face started to twitch. The usher left the room and return shortly with three other men in dark suits. They caucused in the far right corner of the room. As the men whispered they would glance over in Paul's direction. Paul leaned forward on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees. "Thank you, Miss. That was real nice of you." "Will you leave me alone!" she shouted. The caucus broke. A distinguished looking man with gray hair walked to the center of the room. "Ladies and Gentlemen," he said, "I must ask you to please end your visit. The staff needs time to prepare for the memorial service scheduled for tonight at eight. On behalf of the family and friends of Mr. Williams, thank you for coming." Mourners were herded out of the room by men with impatient smiles. A staff member personally escorted Paul to the elevator. "Will Brando be here tonight?" asked Paul. "I don't know, sir," replied the man. Paul managed to squeeze his way to the front of the elevator next to the woman. Her damp stringy hair brushed against his shoulder. He watched her head jerk forward in spasms. Paul thought she was suppressing hiccups until he heard little sobs accompany each spasm. "It's okay, Miss," he said softly. She looked up at him, grimaced, and buried her face in his chest. Tears collected in the tiny crevices of the Twin Towers, forming warm beads of water that spilled over and dripped onto his leg. His arms instinctively encircled her back and he was careful not to squeeze too hard. Her heaves against his chest felt good, tickled. Paul wished that the one flight ride could somehow be prolonged. When the elevator doors pulled apart she reached up and clung to Paul's neck. He put his arm around her waist and led her to the door. Her body went limp; she had to be pulled. When they stepped outside Paul took a crumbled napkin out of his pocket and handed it to her. She grabbed it, took three deep sniffs, and blew her nose as Paul gently kissed her on top of her head. It was gray and drizzling and neither one had an umbrella. Paul, looking as if he were measuring her height, flattened his large hand over her head, protecting her from the rain. "I think we better get some coffee. What do you say? Think so, Miss?" The woman nodded. Paul smiled as she snuggled against him. With one hand forming an umbrella over head and his other hand pressed against her shoulder supporting her weight, he walked two blocks, pausing at each light to lean down and kiss the top of her head. Paul helped her off with her raincoat and hung it up on the rack attached to the booth. She remained silent and did not look at him until after the coffee arrived. Sipping at the cup that she delicately held with both hands, she peeked over at Paul. His stare intimidated her so she quickly looked away. Paul drank his coffee in three gulps and signaled for the waitress. "Want something to eat, Miss?" The woman shook her head. Paul ordered an English muffin and another coffee. "Nice and warm in here, huh Miss?" She nodded; their eyes met. You have an umbrella?" asked Paul. The woman shook her head. "I got one but it's busted. I'm going to buy a new one, though." "That's good," she said. "One of those push button jobs that fold up real small, like you see on T.V." "I like T.V.," she said. "Especially movies. The old ones. I work in television." "No kidding? Wow! What do you do?" The woman took another sip. "Lots of things." "Who do you work for?" "Nobody. I'm not working right now." "That's tough," said Paul. He fingered his WTC emblem. "Well, maybe I can help you. You see this?" He pointed to the emblem. "I'm kind of chauffeur-bodyguard to the Attorney General of New York. He's got an office at the World Trade Center. Maybe I could talk to him about getting you a job in Public Television or something. He's a pretty nice guy. What's your name? "What's yours?" "Paul. Paul Dankin." "Iris." "Feel better, Iris?" Iris shrugged. "Guess so." "It's good to cry. Cleans you out." He laid his hand on top of hers. Her warmth felt good against his cold fingers. Iris slowly withdrew her hand. Paul lit a cigarette. "Does the smoke bother you?" Iris shrugged. "You live around here, Iris?" "No." "I live a couple of miles from here. Where do you live?" "Forest Hills," she said. "Wow! That's a pretty ritzy neighborhood. You been there long, Iris?" "I'm staying at the shelter. I've got to be back by nine." "Yeah? What kind of shelter?" "I've got to be back at the shelter by nine," repeated Iris. "How'd you get here, Iris? By train?" "Yes." "What made you visit Tennessee?" Iris shredded a napkin. "What made you?" Paul bit into the filter of his cigarette. "I'm waiting for Marlon Brando," he said proudly. "What for?" "We're old friends." "You are not," challenged Iris. "Yes we are. A few years ago I took a bus tour of Washington, D.C. It stopped at all the famous places. I was standing outside the Washington Monument looking up at it. It was scaring me. You see, Iris, I'm not afraid of heights. Looking down from high places doesn't bother me a bit. But whenever I have to look up at something I get nervous. Especially when I look up at buildings. You ever feel like that, Iris?" "No." "I always feel like some kind of force, like a magnet or something, is going to pull me up, lifting me off the ground. That's a lot worse than falling 'cause if you're falling down you know you're falling down and that's that. If you get pulled off the ground and lifted into the air you're not falling, but you could fall at any moment. And there's no end. If you fall you have to land but if you're lifted up it could go on forever and I hate that." Iris squirmed restlessly inside the booth. "So what's that got to do with Marlon Brando?" "Oh, yeah, right. So I'm trying to take a picture of the Washington Monument, but every time I aim my camera up at it I start to feel dizzy and sweat. I need a picture to prove I'd been there. I go lots of places." Iris put her elbow on the table and rubbed an eyebrow with her thumb. Paul's throat felt dry so he flagged down the waitress and ordered a cherry coke. "Anyway," Paul continued, "I try and try but I can't snap off a shot my hand's shaking so bad. So I look around and I see this guy walking by and I ask him take one for me. He looks like a real nice guy and he does. Took a great picture, too. I wanted to give him a buck for the favor but he wouldn't take it. I asked him why not? He tells me he doesn't need it 'cause he's Marlon Brando. And that's when I recognized him. Real nice guy. I told him I'd go to every movie he'd make. And I do, too. Even wrote him a couple of letters." "He ever answer you?" asked Iris. "A, a, yeah, sure. I got them home." "Maybe he could find a job for me," she said. "Can I meet him?" "Yeah, sure." "Will he be at the memorial service tonight?"Paul pulled at his thumb until it popped. He bent his pinky by pressing down on the joint until it snapped. "Yeah, sure, he'll be there." Paul cracked the rest of his knuckles. Iris, her elbow resting on the table, lowered her head into the crook of her arm. Paul watched; he feared their conversation had come to an end. "So why are you visiting Tennessee? Are you waiting for somebody?" Iris lifted her head and shook it. "I came to get out. It wasn't easy. I have to be back by nine. But I liked him. Like him a lot. I've seen all his movies. I think to make someone cry from deep down is real, don't you?" "Yeah, sure." Paul licked the ice cubes in his cherry coke as he marveled at the smoothness of Iris' forehead. "I think he must have been lonely. I can't imagine how he would've been able to make characters like that if he wasn't sad. I read once that he didn't have normal relationships with women, but I don't believe it. I think he was hurt by one and was sort of waiting for the right one to come along." Iris lowered her voice; it took on a conspiratorial tone. "I'll tell you a secret because I don't think you'd laugh at me." I won't," swore Paul as his face flushed red. The blood pounding in his ears annoyed him. He was afraid it would drown out Iris' speech. "I often thought," Iris continued, "that I would meet Mr. Williams and he would see in me what it was he was looking for in a woman. I knew he could see beyond silly and pretty and, well, maybe he would love me. But when I walked into his room today it shocked me. It hit me that he really was dead. All morning I felt as if I had a kind of . . . date with him. But when I walked into that room and saw all those strange people looking at me . . ." "I saw you right when you came in," interrupted Paul. " . . . I just knew I missed meeting him. He had blue eyes. Such lovely blue eyes. But when I walked over to where he was lying his eyes were closed and I became angry. I knew I'd never see them. I felt like going over to him and lifting his eyelids just so I could see their blueness and have my reflection mirrored in them. At least then I could feel some kind of closeness with him, something special and apart from those other people there. I figured that if he could see me he'd know that I care deeply about him. Not like those other people there. If he could see me he'd know that I can love." Paul nearly jumped out of his seat. He grabbed Iris' fingers and squeezed. "You can!" "Ouch! You're hurting me!" Paul released her fingers. He fidgeted and then stood up looking around, hoping to find a witness who, like a photograph, would verify an important moment in his life. Someone must have heard Iris declare that she could love, he thought. But he was disappointed. No one in the coffee shop had paid any attention to their conversation. Even his waitress was at the far end of the room and it angered Paul that she seemed to be eavesdropping on another couple. Thinking of the word couple and its application to him and Iris excited Paul and his anger disappeared. "Couple," said Paul. "Of what?" asked Iris. "One cup's enough." Paul twitched as the pounding in his ears returned. He smiled at Iris. She tore open a packet of sugar, dipped her finger inside, and watched the tiny crystals reflect light before putting them in her mouth. Paul watched Iris repeat this three times before signaling for the check. Although he was still upset at the waitress for not having heard Iris' declaration of love, he left her a decent tip. Standing in the coffee shop doorway Iris mumbled that the rain had stopped. When she made no attempt to stay close to Paul as they walked down the street, Paul reached over and grabbed her hand. Iris looked over at him as his hand swallowed hers. Paul nodded, Iris shrugged, and the two walked hand in hand in silence. Paul Dankin strolled down Madison Avenue with a dignity he did not know he possessed. For the first time since he was a child Paul made eye contact with every passing person. He smiled his close lipped smile at the strangers who returned his look, and with a nod of his head acknowledged their admiration for him and Iris as a couple. Each time Paul nodded his head the harder he squeezed Iris' hand until she could no longer stand the pain. "You're hurting me!" Iris cried as she pulled away. Paul tried to apologize but words would not form and he stood there moving his mouth stupidly. "You've hurt me twice," she shouted. "Now leave me alone!" Pedestrians paused to stare. Paul felt a thousand eyes pressing down on him. He tried to speak but could not, so he reached out to comfort Iris, but she stepped back. 1'You hurt me twice!" she repeated, "now leave me alone. I've got to be back at the shelter by nine so keep away from me!" "Yeah, sure," Paul mumbled. Iris turned and walked away. Small gray puddles exploded as his footsteps scraped against the pavement. He walked quickly up the street until he stood in front of Central Park. Paul straddled a metal mesh fence as his feet sank into the mud. An ankle scraped against the fence so he spit on his finger and massaged it into the wound. Trudging up a slippery incline, Paul grabbed at large rocks for support. When he finally reached the top he bent down to check on his ankle. His shirt sleeve was pulled up exposing his wristwatch. Paul frowned. "Five hours till the memorial service," he whispered. Satisfied that the scratch was just a minor one, he walked deeper inside the slushy, deserted park. "I sure hope Brando's gonna be there," said Paul as he kicked at a mound of mud and watched it splatter against a tree trunk. mark blickley hancock suicide, chicago, december 1994, by Janet Kuypers so me and the guys were just taking a break from the construction on the hancock building. you know they've been doing construction work there, right? they put that big wall up around the block, the tall fence, and they've been doing remodeling stuff. well, i had been working on some tile work and we were just walking around the building, me and three other guys, walking kind of like a square, in formation, sort of, and i'm at the back and i stop and step back to check some of the grout work, so i just kind of lean back while standing still. well, one of the guys says he heard it coming, like a big rush of air, like a whistling sound, but much heavier. i didn't even get a chance to look up, though one of the other guys did and saw it coming a split second before it happened. and the next thing i knew there was this loud cracking sound and i felt all of this stuff hit me, like wet concrete thrown at me, but i didn't know what the hell it was. and i opened my eyes and looked down and i was just completely covered in blood and there was just this heap of mass right in front of me. it took a while for me to realize that a woman jumped. she hit the fence, her head and spinal cord were still stuck on the fence and the rest of her was just this red pile right in front of me. the police had to take all of my clothes. every inch. they say she broke through the glass at the fiftieth floor, i don't know how, that glass is supposed to be bullet proof or something. and the one thing i noticed was that she covered her head with panty hose, in an effort to keep her face together. funny, she was so willing to die, but she wanted to be kept in tact. i know i won't hear about this on the news, they try to downplay suicides, but other violence is fine for them. and they say she was handi- capped, but then how badly, and how did she get the strength to break the window and throw herself out of the john hancock building? she must have really wanted to die. it really hasn't sunk in quite yet, seeing her fall apart in front of me like that. i don't think i'm ready to think about it yet. crazy, by gary jurechka Crazy? No, more like disillusioned, a breakdown of thought and emotion, been there, again and again. Crazy? Crazy is the orgainzed chaos of every day life. We are all quiet madmen. the thugs and their gloves, by larry blazek The thugs wore expensive gloves when they killed the children make it look like an accident the boss said luring them to the roof are you scared to stand on the ledge? no we're brave children shoved them over the edge the smallest wouldn't fall he clung to the ledge to spite them all they pummeled and pushed and pried him loose just like the others he fell from the roof The thugs wore expensive gloves door frame, by gabriel athens doorbell hour magazine door man suit hallway briefcase worn flashed tired smile almost genuine. rambled what wanted selling head dizzy confusing words nonsense sense heard listen door frame steady thoughts down stopped do ask ideology poison slammed face alone frame down invoking laurie, by c ra mcguirt in April 7, at about 7:30 p.m., in the back seat of a Ford passing through Dalton, Georgia i looked up and saw a sundown sky waves breaking on old palette colors, and my finger found your name in the dust of the left-hand window. letter, 4/19/95, by Janet Kuypers The depression is so fucking bad I can't work. I'm applying for disability, but that may take months. I'm losing this place, & where I'm going is anyone's guess. I have a shrink appt on Tuesday, but how I'm going to pay for the medication is beyond me. It hardly seems worth it. I know I have things to accomplish; my soul knows it. But the doors of possibility are slamming closed one after another, & I'm not sure I can hang on much longer. your soul knows it. hang on. they say that a soul not at rest after death will travel the earth through all eternity, searching for peace but never finding it. you want your peace. i know it. this is not the way. you have so many things to accomplish. that book, that lover. christ, that extra six-pack stuck in the back of the fridge. just find something, anything, fix on that, and let that take you to the next day. do that for long enough and maybe you'll find that peace you're looking for. but don't stop searching. things have to fall into place first. they have to. they have to. poet's prayer, by c ra mcguirt Lord, please don't let me be understood too quickly letter, 4/14/95, by Janet Kuypers I'm kind of dead in the water. My burger-flippin' gig fell through, or I fell through it. The morning I was to start, I put on my idiot uniform & got into my car to make the gig, & I COULD NOT DO IT. Big time anxiety attack. Telling myself that if I don't get some bread together I'm gonna end up in various kinds of hell did not work. is this what I'm reduced to? I can't go through with it, I can't, I just can't. I deserve better than this. More. Some thing rewarding, something fulfilling, something not so empty, useless, life less like the feeling left in my stomach. At least I still have feeling, or is it just a numbness of sorts, a numbness and an anger. Numbness alone isn't enough to kill myself over, apathy and lack of feeling doesn't promote action. What do I want? What can I do? What range of emotions to I still have to go through, before I've hit them all? I feel like I'm near the end. When I get there, I'll know. Maybe it's anger. I don't know yet. pray for me, by c ra mcguirt i keep forgetting i'm god. letter, 4/14/95, by Janet Kuypers Now it's just sort of a daily refutation of going ahead and cutting my wrists. But I really don't want to die. The intake dude at the clinic asked today, "Well, are you in immediate trouble? Are you into killing yourself TODAY?" "Well...I have IDEAS about how I might pull it off, and yeah, man, I do feel AWFULLY bad." But the doctor wasn't buying it enough to see me before Monday. I guess I should learn to froth at the mouth & pull a razor blade right out at the beginning of the interview. i keep seeing reports that there are going to be more cutbacks saving us from the horrid government waste, and being a taxpayer that manages to sustain myself, I often tend to agree. I think, why can't they get a job? I've done it, why do I have to support them? But then I see you, and I wish there was more I, or the government, could do. I sit here, read letter after letter, wondering if this is the last piece of mail I'll ever receive from you. Wondering if that doctor ever feels any remorse when she hears that a person she turned away died by their own hand. If anyone feels any remorse. Does it take knowing someone to worry about them? Probably, we americans learn to close ourselves off to everyone we can, to avoid pain. I feel your pain, and I don't mean that to sound like some bad presidential clichZÿ. I wish there was something I could give. Not medication. Not words. Not even an embrace. A new feeling. A new lease on life. Anything. the nasty truth, by c ra mcguirt out of stamps & ribbon nothing left to hock but phlegm letter, 4/14/95, by Janet Kuypers I haven't worked in 8 months. I CAN'T. The despair & shame & guilt & sorrow & hopelessness & despair are immense. My family thinks I'm jerking off. They're TIRED of me being a problem. & they don't have the wherewithal to help me. What more can anyone else say? "Don't die. Get some help." Every time I've felt the despair and pain I knew it would go away. And it would. I knew there was always hope, somewhere, and I would be fine. I feel so lost now. I don't know what to offer you. I feel a little piece of your death in every letter, only wishing I could take your pain and pull it into me, then make my pain go away, like I always do. I know I can't. But I don't want to see you go, damnit, I don't want to see you slipping through my fingers just as your letters do. My hands are tied, and the despair & shame & guilt & sorrow & hopelessness & despair are immense. I want to help you, I don't want to be a victim, too, by having to watch you die and not be able to do a damn thing about it. Don't die. Get some help. Don't die. Get some help. letters, by j. speer My mother saved all my letters and when she was at home dying of cancer, I typeset them on a manual machine, no electric connection needed. Dear Maria: Went to Madame Tussaud's Wax House. Some of the figures bare a remarkable resemblance to the original prototypes, while others are poor imitations, as if artists of varying talent were at work. I stood perfectly still at one point to stare to Pablo Piccaso. I had on my poncho and hat. Someone started staring at me. I waited, to prolong the effect, then suddenly moved. The person nearly jumped out of their socks. When I was in NYC I told you about Warren who took me home to Long Island. Well, entering Victoria Station, who do I meet but Himself and friend. They have waited several days to buy a ticket on Skytrain. There are about 1500 people lined up along different streets with makeshift shelters for protection form the rain. Warren conducted me to the end of the cue which zig-zagged a half mile away from the station. I got my name on a list and became part of a sub group. We divided our time to serve shifts on the street to hold our spot. I elected to do the night shift. Fortunately, I commandeered a large piece of plastic from an abandoned site and made some provision for nocturnal downpour. There are constant folks Manning the sidewalks, moving up as their turn comes, only to have the line extended by new arrivals. I never thought I'd be camping on the streets of London. But here we are for a few days, waiting for a ride with the mechanized bird. The event is making front page news (I guess there are no Jack the Rippers on the loose). All the airlines are backed up. London's Heathrow and Gatwick airports are like refugee camps. Local people taunt us with jocund gibes: "Don't play the telly too loud or the landlord will hear about it". People pass by selling sandwiches and foam pads. Ah! The profit motive. The guy next to me said with a few improvements on his lean-to he might be able to rent it. The rain in London is on twenty-four hour call. If New Mexico could export sunshine to Great B., we'd have a steady market. My Mexican sandals fell to shreds from daily use. I bought a pair of Malayan canvas sneakers. A lady was telling me Jap products were at one time temporarily banned from the United States and other parts of the world market. So the Japanese renamed one of their cities Usa and continued selling their goods marked Made in USA.

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

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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@aol.com... 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

Also, visit our new web sites: the Art Gallery and the Poetry Page.

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 book "Rinse and Repeat", which has all the 1999 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. 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.

Published since 1993 No racist, sexist or homophobic material is appreciated; we do accept work of almost any genre of poetry, prose or artwork, though we shy away from concrete poetry and rhyme for rhyme's sake. Do not send originals. Any work sent to Scars Publications on Macintosh disks, text format, will be given special attention over smail-mail submissions. There is no limit to how much you may submit at a time; previously published work accepted.