mask, by gabriel athens

masquerade
complied
dress
costume
face
tears
mask
pay
join
say
high
mask
hope
no

knife, by gabriel athens

there
dancing
floor
toys
knife
face
the
wounds
apologies
lips
hard
show
know
notice
knife
bought
myself
proud
sure
knife
think
mine
yours
waste

saving the price of a ticket to paris, by c ra mcguirt

if i could add graffiti
to your gravestone, Jim
i guess i’d give you
what i plan to have
engraved on mine:
“rest is doubtful.
he owned more
of a voice than
he possessed.”

statutory verse, by c ra mcguirt

outside the cracker
barrel restaurant
a busload of
cute little
baptist
girls
entirely too
many curves
for their
ages
made me want
to do something
desperate
i guess
this is
it

The Statue, by ian griffin

Why is it that no woman has ever loved me? And why is it that those who have said that they did love me were, in fact, ruthlessly lying for their own gain? (At least, I guess that’s why they were lying like that.) I’d believed on more than one occasion long ago that I would’ve been able to love such and such a woman, if only she’d have given me a chance. I still believe this very moment that back then it was true. Now I’m not capable of loving anyone anymore.
This, readers, is no phenomenon. The process has followed a very definite path over the course of this now almost completely dwindled life, and the result could have been derived through logic long ago.
Although I did actually just work it out on paper a short while ago, even back then I had a very good clue about what the mathematics were capable of telling me; so after the third woman who’d told me she loved me just didn’t show up one day, I decided to live for something other than love. I wondered why for so long I had chose to ignore the funny fact that “live” and “love” both spell the same thing backwards. Coincidence, I thought in the beginning, it means nothing. I was glad to finally be able to admit that I’d been wrong.
Everybody needs something to live for. This is one thing that I never chose to ignore. I wouldn’t have been able to if I’d tried, because it’s either live for something or die. That’s just the way it is and there really aren’t any arguments. Well, any that I’m interested in anyway.
For a few weeks there after I’d made that first big decision to shun love and get on with something else, I was living just to find out what exactly it was that I would come up with to live for next. Remember that one, folks, it comes in handy more often than you’d expect.
And then I came up with something.
I was suddenly aware of it one night while I was busy cutting my toenails: I would live to think of something to get famous for!
This was serious progress I was making. In only a few short weeks I’d decided to get famous for something. Then my toe began to bleed. It was the toe I’d had between my fingers when I’d come up with my idea about what to live for. I’d cut that nail way too short in the excitement.
I felt it would be best to finish my pedicure the next day, when the excitement had had some time to ease up a bit. I also had a lot of other, more important work to do.

Next I had to decide what I would get famous for. Several mediocre ideas immediately came to mind.
I could amass the world’s largest hardcore pornography collection. I knew I’d have stiff competition from some people in Europe, but I’d been working on a platform of my own to stand on (which I never actually did stand on) since the day I’d turned 18, so I was sure that I had a shot at that one at least. So far not so bad, I thought.
Maybe I could devote my life to breaking and holding the most world records in the Guinness Book. Then I realized where that idea had come from. I’d just heard the morning before on the radio about some guy who was doing the same thing. They were actually broadcasting live on the scene as this man was in the process of breaking the world record for longest distance somersaulted. He was going from one town to another one a certain amount of miles away, and if he got there he would own the record. They even let him stop at intervals to vomit.
People regarded the guy as a mental case. The DJ’s were making fun of him right to his face. They would get microphones in close to him during his breaks and broadcast his retching noises live on the air. I didn’t want to be remembered as a weirdo. I was proud then. So I forgot about that one and continued to examine the ideas that kept on coming to me.
I thought maybe I could choose a professional sport, practice every day, and then try out for the local team during the training camp time of year, depending on what sport I chose.
Then I remembered the reason I’d quit sports back in junior high school in the first place: I sucked. That’s all there was to it. I had no coordination whatsoever. I looked like I was paraplegic when I ran. Back then the coaches told me I ran like a girl. Coaches wouldn’t use that figure of speech these days.
After dismissing that thought as not-so-good I had another one almost immediately: what if I picked an instrument to learn? Then, when I was highly adept at it, I could form a band and be a rock star.
That idea, I remember, appealed to me immensely; more so than any of the others so far. But in the end I decided against it. If I didn’t have the coordination to throw or catch a ball, I certainly wouldn’t be able to strike the delicate notes of an instrument. At best I could’ve been a gong player, but no one gets famous for that. Unless you make an entire television show out of it, that is.
I didn’t let the fact that I wasn’t coming up with any really good ideas distress me. Early on someone I forget now had taught me that in order for one thing to exist, an opposite to it must exist also. I integrated this idea into the rest of my thinking process as a sort of protective barrier against despair. I knew that in order for me to come up with any good ideas, I would have to come up with some bad ones also. For a brief moment I wondered if I shouldn’t go back and give love another chance. No. Bad idea.

World-famous podiatrist, world-renowned lunch meat slicer, and internationally-recognized blower of chewing gum bubbles that looked like circus clowns didn’t quite appeal to me either, but then I thought, maybe I’ll write. Maybe I’ll pen an immortal novel that is considered completely fresh and innovational by people all over the world! Yes! Even illiterate people will know my name, they just won’t know how to spell it! All of these things I thought.
It was an idea I finally really liked. It was something to live for, and something important. It was something that when I told people what it was I was busy doing, they would stare at me for a moment out of awe without even knowing they were doing it. Unfortunately, I never got the chance to tell anyone anyway.
It also didn’t quite work out that way, as you probably already know. It’s not because I decided not to carry through with the plan after all, though. Oh, on the contrary.
I began to write day and night. When I had to go outside and couldn’t be in front of my typewriter, I would bring a pen and a pad of paper with me and write on the way to wherever it was I had to go.
Job? Did I have a job during all of this? In the beginning I did. I was fired when my boss showed up one day and saw that people were having to get out of their cars to pump their own gas and then coming over to me to give me the money while I sat in a chair and wrote in my notebook. He was furious and chewed me out good before he told me to get lost.
But then the scum bag cashed in on my idea. A week later I was driving by and happened to glance over at the station. The prices were cheaper than they had been; cheaper, in fact, than anywhere else I’d seen for years. I wondered how this could be. Then I saw the sign in the window that told me everything: SELF-SERVE. I must’ve gotten all the other guys who’d worked there with me fired also. I hoped they didn’t know where I lived.
Actually, for a few weeks after that some very strange things happened while I was at home writing. For one thing, I didn’t get a single piece of mail for almost a month. And twice pizza delivery boys knocked on my door insisting that I’d ordered a large pie with everything on it when I had done no such thing. I like plain cheese pizza and that’s all.
But I’m getting away from my purpose.
I wrote a beginning to my immortal novel no less than thirty-seven times. I just didn’t feel that I was getting it right.

I also couldn’t decide if my hero should live or die at the end. Both had their pros and cons; I know because I made a chart of them just like I’d learned to do in junior high.
I’d been able to pay attention to my teachers back in junior high because I never had to worry about the big game I would have to play in after school.
I also tried to learn as much as I could because I couldn’t rely on sports to get me to college, and my folks were set on my going to college, even though they knew there was no way they’d be able to pay for it. I knew there was no way they’d be able to pay for it either, so I tried as hard as I could all through school to get A’s so I could get a scholarship.
I ended up never getting one anyway, but that’s a different story, one you’re never going to hear from me. Actually, there’s no one living today who could tell it to you either, so you might as well forget about it. The fact is I never went to college, and that’s the last you’ll hear on that topic.
Back to my novel.
Since I couldn’t decide if the hero should live or die, I decided that I shouldn’t have to decide. I instructed the newly-widowed wife of the hero to construct a live-sized statue of him on their front lawn, so that he could live on for her and anyone else who wanted him to. Pretty clever, don’t you think?
The arrival of that decision greatly inspired me and I was finally able to write a solid, immortal first chapter. And then, just like that, the thing began writing itself like all the experts whose articles I’d read on the subject said it would. They’d been so right. I figured that meant that I was practically an expert myself already. I must’ve been born to write an immortal novel!
The story line I’d carefully constructed went something like this: The hero was a balding middle-aged guy who lived by himself in an unkempt house in anonymous suburbia. All the neighborhood kids called him “the old homo” because he was old enough to be married but they knew he wasn’t and had never even seen him with a lady.
One day all those kids are out in the street playing hockey when a madman in a car comes tearing through without even blowing his horn to warn them and hits one of the kids, little Billy. Billy was taken to the hospital where he was pronounced alive and well, but his leg was broken and would be in a cast for six to eight weeks.

I mean, this is good stuff, don’t you think? Medically accurate and everything.
Anyway, the thing is the old homo happened to be looking out his window at the exact moment that all this happened, and was able to see and write down the license plate number of the car as it sped away from the scene.
He calls the police and gives a description which they then use to track down and apprehend the criminal, but he also tells the police that it’s an anonymous tip so that he won’t have to deal with the headache of telling all the parents in the neighborhood and especially Billy’s parents that they’re welcome.
So then an entire year passes uneventfully, except for the fact that the old homo decides to start exercising to get into shape. The narrative skips to a year later in the late afternoon when the old homo is out jogging around the block a few times.
When he was about as far from his house as he was going to get, another madman tears through the scene in his car and hits our anonymous hero! Can you believe it? What a coincidence, you must be thinking, what a brilliant and ironic coincidence!
But the best part has yet to come. Nobody witnesses the crime except for an unmarried, middle-aged lady who lives in the attic of her parents’ house. A regular Emily Dickinson. She first calls an ambulance and then the police to report the crime and give a description of the culprit’s vehicle. She was even able to get the license plate number!
The old homo appears to be hurt badly, and while he’s lying there in a puddle of lonely blood, the lady falls in love with him from the attic where she’s looking at him from through her tiny window.
She decides to visit him in the hospital and they fall in love. He’s badly injured but expected to pull through, and while he’s still in the hospital the two get married. The Justice of the Peace comes right into the hospital room and marries the two of them.
Now here’s the part I told you before that I had a lot of trouble with. The way it ends up is that sudden and mysterious complications cause the death of our hero, and the grieving widow gets possession of his house and erects a statue of him on the front lawn. All the neighborhood children are baffled by this, but that doesn’t really matter. The old homo is now immortal just like my novel about him will be!
When all of this was finally down it had taken me four years and totaled 674 pages. There was no detail I left unwritten. It was real, it was all very alive and capable of provoking the deepest emotions in readers. I myself cried while writing many of the pages. And I’m no crybaby.
Let me tell you, no less than thirty-seven publishers took a look at my manuscript. I nearly went broke just sending it out so many times. Twenty-six of them rejected it within the first month. I was dumbfounded. Were these editors or sheep I was dealing with? Weren’t they able to see that with the proper promotion, my book would make them millions? Obviously not!
I had a little more hope for the remaining eleven who had yet to give me any word. Since I had never published anything before I didn’t know exactly what to expect, but I figured that if it was being given it the proper consideration, it would take a few months. After all, reading 674 pages is no small task. It had taken me six months to get through Dostoyevsky’s The Possessed. (My story puts that one to shame, of course. No offense to Fyodor or anything.)
So after six months of not hearing from any of the remaining eleven publishers, I decided to give them a polite ring on the telephone, one by one.
Seven of them flatly denied ever hearing of, let alone receiving, any manuscript from me! Who are you? they asked! I couldn’t utter a word each of the seven times. I just hung up .
The other four informed me that my manuscript had either not been read yet, or was still under consideration. That got my spirits back up again. I was overjoyed to learn that at least there were two people in this country who knew immortal literature when they saw it, with the potential for two more.
Well, don’t let my kind words fool you. They’re just part of the story. A month ago I received three rejection notices in rapid succession. Idiots. That’s what the “publishers” in this country are. The whole lot of them. I mean, are they trying to sell books or what?
Last week I decided to telephone the one publisher who was holding the very last of my hope. I wanted to see what the story was. They told me that they didn’t know who I was and denied ever having seen my manuscript!
My head almost blew right off my shoulders under the pressure of the anger and despair that filled me. I wanted to know who the hell they thought they were to be jerking me, an immortal novel writer, off like that! They asked me what the date was that I had been informed that my manuscript was still under consideration. I checked my calendar and told them. There was a pause. Then the ass-hole says

-Uh, sir? Our secretary was on vacation that week, and we instructed the temporary girl to tell anyone who may be calling to check the status of a manuscript that it was still being considered. Your phone call brings to light the error of our judgment, but there is really nothing we can do and we are very sorry for any inconvenience that this may have caused you. Good bye.
He sounded like a goddamn machine, and for all I know he could’ve been! Who knows who’s running the publishing houses these days! Judging by the stuff you find in the bookstores, they probably are all machines! It wouldn’t surprise me!
But I didn’t even want to think about it. I’d had it with publishers just like I’d had it with every other damn rotten person in this world. The whole thing was over as far as I was concerned. Finished. At least while I was still alive, that is.
I was angry enough to burn the manuscript, but the funny thing and point of this whole story is, I decided not to. I still think the thing is going to be immortal, but it’s obvious to me now that I have to die first. That’s all it’ll take.
So here you go. When I hung up with that last publisher a week ago, having lost the last bit of my hope and pride, I sat down and thought about what I should do. I didn’t have a reason to live anymore.
What was finally decided upon was that I would sit down for however long it took me and briefly put down the story of my life, just as one last reason to live. I would tell about all the things I had done and all of my thoughts on the world and life etc., and then I would kill myself in order that my book finally gets the recognition it has always deserved.
As you might’ve been able to guess, now it’s really over. I don’t have anymore to say and this is it. This past week has really allowed me to gather my thoughts, and now I’m really ready to do what I have to do. I’m doing this for all of you.
Farewell.

P.S. You better not forget to buy my book!

ian griffin

tanya’s story, by janet kuypers

(tanya’s middle name is marie, and her sister’s name tasha anna negron. she likes her sister’s name, but i told her that her name was nice, too. this is a story tanya made up for me at logan beach cafe. she was eating nachos with salsa. tanya is nine, going on ten.)
this is a story about summer. phil was riding his bike. phil is my brother. (how old is phil?) phil is 17, going on 18 years old. so he was riding his his bike in the park, and it was sunny, and joe-joe, he’s my other brother, he shot a bow and arrow at phil’s tires. and he hit the tires!!!! and phil got MAD. phil fell over, he hit his arm, but he was okay. so, since phil was mad, he ran after joe-joe, and he caught up to him and threw him on the ground. they started fighting, and my sister tasha came and told them to stop. but they didn’t stop, and so she called my dad. dad came came with the belt (ooh! -that’s my addition to the story. sorry.) it’s really a mexican belt. (what’s the difference between a mexican belt and a belt, say, not from mexico? am i asking too many questions?) it really big, and i got hit with it once. (ouch. -that’s my addition again. sorry.)

(oh, wait, she had to go get a drink, she was thirsty. making up stories is hard work.)
(okay, she’s coming back now.)
(so, what’s the end of the story? what happened?)
my brother joe had a black eye, phil gave it to him. so dad came and he hit them. and they stopped fighting then.
(okay, so we got the good-guy/bad guy thing covered, and an action scene, and a resolution. so most stories have a moral, so what’s the moral of this story?)
not to fight.

nights, by alexandria rand

If I have to -
I’ll put on the mask
I’ll play the game
the facade
Oh, I’ll do it -
I’ll go through the motions
I’ll live with the lies
the fantasy world.
Just to spend my nights with you.

“We do expect you to marry someone
who shares in your beliefs,”
the man groaned
as he looked at you and said,
“and that means you too, Joe.”
But tell me this:
when you look into my eyes,
do you want to look away?

rendering me, by alexandria rand

the heat
the fire
burning my skin
red
hot
stripping me
rendering me
defenseless

sometimes the understanding, by alexandria rand

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

knife pocketed, by paul weinman

I saw your eyes
like cellar windows
letting me see
what you want to
hide there.
The anger and revenge
metaphored
as some knife
to slice me
to wound me
when all you have
is a metal blade
hidden somewhere inside
unhoned, rusted, unused.
to use my knife
as symbol
with all its blades
gadgets hidden
appearing like magic
from seeminglt anywhere.
those are my ways
to pry into women
to screw into women
to squeeze into women
to twist into women
to cut into women
to lever into women
to poke into women
to pick into women
want me to take it out?

the air she said, by john sweet

it’s just the air
she said
thick and blue
and i can’t think straight
and the sun
is never warm enough
and i need someone to hold me
and i haven’t felt the same
since my father died
haven’t found anyone
who tastes as sweet
and i don’t expect you
to understand
and i don’t want your pity
or your condescention
and god she said
all i fucking want anymore
is a new addiction
to drown in

i knew i had to, by gabriel athens

I knew I had to.
And so I walked into their bedroom
and killed them.
A gun to the head:
my stepfather first,
then my mother,
awakening to her death.
As I opened the door
my room smelled like burning
as the black wax
coated my carpet.
I sat on the floor,
pulled out the book
and began to read.
“You must do it, my son,”
the voice said to me.
I know.

the hammer falls, by gabriel athens

I wake to
the early morning.
I wear the gray shirt.
the hammer falls.
I throw it down
with a skilled accuracy.
I create a repetition
that is true to life..
hours on end
the hammer meets
with it’s enemy.
and every day
I strike with
a renewed fever.
and every day
the relentless steel
refuses to give in.
so I retire.
so I resign myself
once again
to the early morning
and the falling
hammer

swimming in hot concrete, by john alan douglas

Meditating on this spring bench
up against aquatic center wall
with leafy shadows
flirting madly about
and liquid sun
dancing

karen, by john alan douglas

I’d love to redirect
our 1st meeting
on same sweet bench
ten odd years ago
into something
anything
more creative.

lucius, by gary jurechka

Seeing and feeling
through the eyes
of my heart’s mind;
it’s not as it seems
here in my dreams.

lucius (part II), by gary jurechka

The music I listen to
is the soundtrack of my
life. And what is my life
but a movie based upon
the book that I create
every day.

lucius (part VIII), by gary jurechka

breathe quite contentment
I’m dream-living
and
love comes in colours
I can feel

lucius (part XII), by gary jurechka

Lone wolves run fierce,
salmon destroy themselves
for love.
Damned if I do,
damned if I don’t.

the explanation

so i figured i’d have to write out information
that our readers might want to know
in the form of a poem, since
they seldom look over the ads.
ha! i got you, you thought
you were reading a poem, when it’s actually
the dreaded advertising. but wait -
you’ll actually want to read this, i think.
Okay, it’s this simple: send me published
or unpublished poetry, prose or art work
(do not send originals),
along with a SASE for response, to
Children, Churches and Daddies, Scars Publications.
Then sit by your mailbox and wait.
Pretty soon you’ll get your SASE back
with a note 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!
Now, if you’re also interested, there are two
books available through scars publications:
one is called “hope chest in the attic” and
the other is called “the window.”
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.
The Window is about 180 pages of her newest
stuff. It’s hand-bound, paperback, and she’ll
even sign it if you beg her enough. Man, it’s groovy.
two dollars would cover the cost of printing and
shipping. oh, and four dollars would cover
back issues of cc+d or chapbooks. and make
those checks payable
to me, of course, janet kuypers. gifts are always
appreciated as well. just kidding.
and for you people out there with magazines, just
keep in mind that we here at cc+d are more than
happy to run ad pages for you, if you’ll do the same
for us. seems pretty fair.
is that all? yeah, i think that’s pretty much it.
now for the real poetry...

journeymen, by jordan weiss

after a man reaches his third decade, provided he ain’t married, in jail or dead; that man is a journeyman. chuck,ivan and lem were the kind of men that knew about women, but had sense enough to steer clear of them, these men were not to be confused with role models. and we weren’t talkin’ about shaping any young incorrigible who would have ended up as some animals bitch in the big house anyhow. i joined their group and being the pup of the bunch, i wore my youth, the way a teenager wears a hard-on. ivan and chuck were on their way to sunnier climes; in this country, the u.s. of a., journeymen can follow the best weather around the calendar and one of the requirements to be a journeyman is you have to know how to do something marketable e.g carpenters make good journeymen and are free to roam the country as they please, because wherever you go houses are always being built and if you do end up in an area where there ain’t any construction than that town is usually good enough for a couple of drunken episodes, which incidentally are mandatory so you can figure out where the next destination is. i drank my beer with the journeymen and even went as far as to say i did a little of my own scratch-n’-sniff in this big wasteland i affectionately call my country. and as i went to the bathroom to relieve myself of the digested beer that isn’t welcome in the house in which i’m livin’, i looked in the wastebasket and saw the adhesive strip that is found on a sanitary napkin and knew full-well where my destination was.

that’s not what i’m here for, by janet kuypers

every once in a while
i want to talk to one of them
see if they’ll actually listen
but i’ve learned by now
they’re not interested in
what i have to say
that’s not what i’m here for
they think they’re using me
i guess they are
but what they don’t realize
is that i’m using them, too
maybe that’s why
they don’t feel the pain i feel
but i still use them, they use me
but i do it anyway

Playing Out The Hand, by brian mcnabb

Playing Out The Hand

The heaters predictably pumped a constant temperature of sleep into Paul and Anne’s master bedroom. Coffee brandy seeped into pink pearl colored carpet from a toppled glass. Dripping from the mahogany nightstand to the floor with an unfaltering frequency, it culminated in a brown muddy puddle. Anne didn’t notice her bedroom blemish. Music videos flared across the muted T.V. screen. Hunched forward, near the end of her king sized bed, she dreamedly stroked her foot on the calming feel of the carpet. Slowly, seduced to sleep, she leaned back, absorbed by the mattresses willingness to give. Her three daughters: Amy, Kimmie, and Bethy huddled on the floor, at the edge of the bed, building a future civilization out of wooden blocks, discarded blankets, and five dolls. Sadly, one of Bethy’s dolls had lost its head due to unforeseen circumstances: a lapse in responsibility and a slammed door. She learned early one can never care too much about one’s property.
Night wore on. Below the bed, the children continually constructed cities from blocks; these paradises inevitably crumbled whenever an architect frowned on a design. After a few seconds of screaming, a new agreement between the participants was reached and a new model built. Awoke by the last outburst, Anne feeling drained, rose then teetered back onto the bed, slipping into her beige pillows. She couldn’t discipline herself or her children. With a familiar movement, her arm pinpointed and spun the light dial, dimming the overhead light to twilight.
Anne’s mind buzzed in and out as her body lay heaped on the bed. Sweat soaked her bangs; the excess pooled around her lower neck. Startled by something, her head rose, straining to focus. Her hazel eyes, which battled between blue, green, and grey, wavered towards the night stand. Her vision became a blare of black and white static interrupted by a bright yellow beacon. Her eye lids blinked and then sealed.
After ten seconds, she raised her lids. A vision of a deep black robed figure silhouetted the darkness. He stood beside her and spoke. His tone comforted her, but the meaning of the words wasn’t clear. Anne snapped into an awakened state, yet could not recall the words. Details fell through holes in her memory. “Christ, that Jesus vision again, I must he losing it.”
Years ago at age seventeen, Anne had seen this Jesus vision before, after coming off a two day tear of pink heart (amphetamines) and beer. Already in therapy, Anne that week confessed this vision to her psychiatrist. He explained it as a Christ like hallucination caused by a chemical imbalance; bipolar disorder. He recommended that she be put on medication. To this, she responded, “You stay up for two days out of it, and see if you don’t see things!” In spite of these reoccurring visions, she never took anything. Anne felt she had been nurtured in hell and deduced, “God had not saved her then and wasn’t saving her now.”
Anne lay back down, passing out. Battling her subconscious as she went under, she reluctantly rummaged deeper into her memory. As a little girl going to kindergarten, she feared going off to school. Mommy taught her that when the two black lines pointed to the top of the clock, it was time for school. Just make it between the kitchen table and Mommy, then shut the door behind her. Then, walk alone to the brick building: kindergarten. My mom, my idol, sprawled out in a pile of puke. Broken bottles everyday, everywhere-helter skelter. My Dad off at work. At six, my father entered my childhood and the house for about two hours, washed Mom up, and paraded off into society. He often brought presents, little more. On weekends, at least, the baby sitter didn’t fall down and hurt herself. My older brother and sister didn’t have to repolish the house. Anne remembered other family events. The seasonal family reunions. She treated them like a trip to the dentist, with displeasure, often experiencing pre-visit psychosomatic pain. Now-a-days, adding emotional insult to emotional injury, her family expertly quick-edited their past; the more unpleasant sections were scrapped. No sour incidents existed or ever had existed. Anne’s growing up was limited largely to five family vacations, six birthdays, two Thanksgivings, one slumber party, one sweet sixteen party, and three Christmases. Nothing else. Present talk consisted of money, new cars, visiting stars, money, houses, money, kids: future schools and pre-planned employment, and especially money. At these gatherings, there was never a shortage of new outfits, jewelry, or expense. Complete imported bullshit.
“What is the point,” Anne mumbled, coming to. “It amounts to nothing. It is one big facade.” Anne knew that commenting “I don’t want to live any more”, gets old after about the one thousandth confession. Disturbing Anne’s recollections and rationalizations, Bethy cried out like a young blue jay calling for food. Her child’s call ripped away Anne’s outer cocoon of self pity. Children, in life, perhaps, are the great equalizer; after having kids, can you care about yourself as much?
Anne rose and lumbered across the room. She snatched a luke warm baby bottle from her bureau. Returning to Beth, she pacified the child, then hugged her. Tears plummeted down Anne’s face. She noticed Amy and Kim curled up like kittens around the bedposts; protected by their blankets. Further, slipping out of her numbness, Anne realized that she could never leave her children. She put Beth, Kim, and Amy into her bed; each cooed in delight then fell back to sleep. Anne admired her children. Her head turned for a moment and she blankly stared into space. Suddenly, her years of discontent solidified into what they were-the past. Life, I have life. She saw belonging in her children’s faces and understood. Anne capped the bottle of brandy, laid beside her daughters, and waited for her husband’s arrival.

brian mcnabb

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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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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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.