walking with you (2/18/94), by Janet Kuypers

It’s springtime again
and here we are,
picking flowers from neighbor’s yards
at three a.m.
it’s still a little cold
it’s still only April
as the wind rushes through our clothes
hands clasped walking in stride
lily of the valley,
tulips, daffodils
it’s a beautiful wind

letter to the editor, from dail chaffin

it’s not funny the number of times i walked into a hospital to seen a battered child only to have the first words out of that child’s mouth be, “when can i go home?”
admitted, only some of my work is about social issues only some of my work is about children some of my work is about my son (i raised him by myself, his mother got help, got better got visitation and then split with him for nine years - my son has never forgiven her for it, no matter how many times she said she did it for him...
this was years ago, back when no one knew what a manic depressive person was. they said she was everything from multiple personality to just plain crazy and the meds were poured into her.
it was a woman doctor who finally understood (a gender thing?) the problem is people with that disorder, on meds - begin to feel better than stop their meds - then they get worse
it’s a happy ending. i work with children my ex has a husband and several children - he, at times, forces her to take her meds my son is twenty-two, at times acts like he’s twelve the signs of manic-depression he was showing years ago turned out to be “learned behavior” and he is much better
he couldn’t come for a visit for my last birthday, so he called to tell me not to worry. While i may be older than most trees; i am way younger than most rocks - what a sweet child!
he was nice enough to explain MY problem to me. At twenty-two i was married, in the service and he was born; at twenty-two he is single, free, therefore i am jealous of him!
i didn’t bother to explain that i’ve been single longer then he’s been around and that while i was fourteen and on my own, he lived with mom and step-dad (step-dad has money!) until he was twenty-one. i just gave him a mental hug and dropped a check in the mail.

Independence Day, by Ken Sieben

Independence Day
Ken Sieben

The moment Walter Martin slammed the door, he felt surprised he had not let it close by force of its own weight. That would have been more like Walter, for he was a quiet, logical person, a computer programmer, who normally did not indulge in demonstrations of temper. In seventeen years he’d never even shouted at Joan.
Walter had walked out the door in quiet anger many times over the three years he’d known their marriage was disintegrating, so the instinctive, unintended act of slamming the door signaled to him a finality, like driving a nail through the surface of wet lumber. This time he would not go back.
The problem was not that Joan denied him sex but that she showed the same attitude as when doing dishes or laundry. To her, his erection was like a torn sock or an uncleared table-something that required her to perform a duty. And she always did her duty. Her life was one continuous duty.
Walter had once loved Joan and felt sorry for her now, but he no longer felt responsible; he had not done it to her. For three years he had failed to find a cause for Joan’s inability to derive any pleasure, satisfaction, or enjoyment from life.
At first he thought it was the fault of her older sister who never married or even dated and, Walter figured, had apparently never experimented with or had any curiosity about the sexual act. Some people were just like that and there was no precise cause. It was just the way things happened. But no one, Walter realized, not even Joan, could be influenced by Catherine.
Two summers ago, Walter had concluded t:he problem was related to their daughter, who, then twelve, seemed suddenly aware of her own sexuality. Carolyn had inherited from him both her height and her skin that tanned so easily, and would spend every Saturday and Sunday afternoon either playing volleyball on the beach with the high school kids or waterskiing behind some older boy’s speedboat as it raced around the bay.
One of the reasons Walter enjoyed living by the water was the opportunity to see people having fun. After his own daily morning swim he would linger just to watch the little kids build castles in the sand and the men cast lures from the beach. He owned a small outboard runabout which he docked right at their bayfront condo. Carolyn had been skiing since she was eight and still went crabbing with him, though not as often as when she was younger. She was comfortable on the boat. She seemed naturally comfortable on the water. She could handle a small sailboat by herself and wanted a windsurfer for Christmas.
The Fourth of July when Carolyn was thirteen was the first time Joan did not go with them to watch the fireworks. She said that she had a headache and the noise would make it worse. They had always gone by boat because it seemed more exciting than sitting in packed bleachers. Aunt Catherine would accompany them and Carolyn would usually invite her best friend of that summer.
Fourth of July was Walter’s favorite holiday. He’d taught Carolyn that it was good for a family to enjoy themselves when in the midst of other people also enjoying themselves. They could have an evening swim, a picnic supper and a moonlight boat ride on any night, but to do these things in the sight and presence of other American families on the national holiday gave Walter a very special feeling. It was one of the deliberate steps he took to connect himself with the world. Joan never made connections. She could perceive only the noise, the expense, the drinking; she could not comprehend the human need for shared spectacle.
Carolyn did not show any disappointment that her mother wasn’t coming. When Walter told her, she immediately-and correctly-assumed Catherine would likewise not come and asked permission to bring three friends. Walter agreed, not realizing two of them would be muscular sixteen-year-old boys. He didn’t really mind; the idea had simply surprised him at first. On consideration, he knew his daughter was beginning a new phase of her life. She had always been a fun-loving kid, and now the range of her fun was going to expand. That was certainly nothing to fret about.
Joan would fret, he knew as soon as the boys arrived, and he was right. She raised no objections, only her eyebrows, but when he returned late that night to find her asleep over her knitting, he could still see the furrows in her forehead.
So the next Fourth of July when Joan said, “You know I don’t go to the fireworks anymore,” Walter declared his independence.

plush horse stories
ice cream parlor, candy shop, bakery, 1986-1990
work stories

four syllables, by Janet Kuypers

tuesday nights were regular working nights
for me, and in the winter time the ice cream
parlor never had any business. so i worked
with vince, a regular guy, like me, well, regular,
like me, not like me because he’s a guy, because
i’m a woman, you know. wait, so anyway, i’d
work with vince and john, and john was like
a marine wanna-be, a real tough guy that
obsessed over his body. not a real intellect.
harmless, funny in his machismo, i guess.
so once we were sitting around, i’m talking
to john and john’s got his back to vince,
talking to me, and i must have made some
sort of cut-down to john, and i knew he
wouldn’t understand what i said, but then he
looked at me and he said, “elaborate.” and vince
and i just burst out laughing, and i said, “ooh,
johnny learned a new word at school today,”
and vince was holding up four fingers and
mouthing, “four! four syllables!” john never
saw vince. vince and i were both so impressed,
john had a fifty cent word. we were laughing
so hard.

accounts for the need of gun control, January, 1995, by Janet Kuypers

One day a man decided to kill people.
A shooting spree. So he went into a
gun shop, picked up a pair of assault
rifles, a number of rounds, each of
one hundred bullets. And he bought
these things, he didn’t need a
permit or a license. Just walked in
and out. And he went to an office
building to take out his revenge
on the world. My wife was there,
took five bullets in the back. I wonder
if she suffered before she died. We went
on a ski trip together last Christmas.
She looked so beautiful with the
snow in her hair. This man didn’t need
a license, and yet I needed a permit to
retrieve my wife’s ashes from the
crematorium. He didn’t just do this to
her, you know. Or to the other victims.
He’s tortured me, and our baby girl. Our
girl is darling. She’s blond, like her
mommy. We have to live with
this trauma forever. This should not
be how we have to live.
As my girl’s second birthday approached
this year, I asked her what she
wanted. She said she wanted
to see mommy. Guess what
she is going to want for her
third

“Drawing the Wrong Conclusions”, by D. V. Aldrich

“Drawing the Wrong Conclusions”
D. V. Aldrich

Ron had brought home a complete set of exercise equipment, including an exercise bench, for Brenda’s birthday gift. While she thought this was a rather peculiar gift, Brenda decided she would give it a try in hopes of dispelling the sorrowful look Ron had given her when she had made her initial comments about his selection.
Having promised a friend she would babysit her six year old daughter, Amy, Brenda decided to occupy Amy’s time with some coloring books and crayons while she went upstairs and gave the exercise equipment a try.
With Amy busily occupied downstairs and Ron just finishing up a shower, Brenda began moving the exercise equipment around, which created some noise, and she was unaware someone had come to their front door and Amy had let them inside. Now, this person was not a stranger to Amy, but he was a stranger to both Ron and Brenda. His name was Mr. Potts, and he had been to Amy’s house many times trying to get her parents to buy more insurance from him and, evidently, had stopped by Ron’s and Brenda’s house to solicit their business as well.
“Hello, Mr. Potts. Remember me?” Amy asked.
“Why, yes I do, Amy. What are you doing here?”
“Brenda and Ron are babysitting me. Do you want to see them?”
“Yes, if they’re not too busy.”
“Okay, wait over there in that big chair, and I’ll go get them for you.”
“Thank you.”
So, Mr. Potts sat down, while Amy went upstairs. Well, Ron had finished his shower and was wearing only a towel, which he had wrapped around his waist, when he noticed Brenda was taking an interest in the exercise equipment. He was so happy and had sneaked up behind her and was kissing her on the back of the neck, when Amy, un-noticed by them, got a glimpse of what they were doing. Amy quietly retreated and went back downstairs and began to assess the situation upstairs as only a six year old could.
“They’re busy, Mr. Potts. Ron is naked, and they’re making bees.”
“Do you mean like the birds and bees?”
“Of course, silly. You know about the birds and bees, don’t you, Mr. Potts?”
“Well, I’m not sure.”
“I do. When I grow up, I’m going to make me a bee, but I’m not going to put a stinger on him. Stingers hurt, you know.”
“Yes, they can be very dangerous.”
“My daddy got stung, right on his balls.”
“Perhaps, I’d better come back some.other time. Here, let me leave one of my cards.”

“What’s in that box?”
“Oh, you mean my briefcase. Well, I just keep my important papers in there.”
“My mommy has a box like that. She keeps her papers in there, too. Her papers aren’t filled up, though. She tells her boss she is going to work at home, but she doesn’t.”
“I guess we all have our little secrets.”
“I know a secret. Do you want to hear it?”
“What is it?”
“My daddy can make teeth grow while he’s sleeping, nice ones, too.”
“How does he do that?”
“I don’t know but, every night when he goes to bed, there is a glass of water beside his bed and, when he wakes up, there are a bunch of pretty teeth in that-glass.”
About then, Brenda started lifting weights for the very first time in her life, while Ron was helping her but, unaware to them, their voices were carrying downstairs, where Amy had convinced Mr. Potts that he should stay a little longer, because it does not take very long to make bees. Well, you can guess what Mr. Potts was thinking as the sounds filtered down from above.
“Okay, honey, now crouch down and put one in each hand,” Ron instructed Brenda, who was about to lift two small dumb-bells.
“Okay, now straighten up your body and pull them up to your chin,” Ron continued.
“Like this?” Brenda asked.
“That’s fine. Now, just lower them slowly.”
“Hey, that was fun. Let me try that again.”
“Okay. Now, just bring them up to your thighs this time. We don’t want to hurt anything. Wait a minute, I’ll move over this way so you can get a better position.”
Needless to say, Mr. Potts was feeling quite uncomfortable and wanted to leave, but Amy had gotten out her crayons and was making him a picture of a horse, so he couldn’t very well leave at that moment. All he could do was to sit there and listen and hope to God that Brenda and Ron would soon be over with their intimate rendezvous. Well, Brenda was ready to tackle the full size bar-bell with a minimum of weights, so Ron prepared it for her and began instructing her on the proper procedure to follow.
“Okay, honey, stand with your feet just slightly apart, lean forward, and get a good grip on it.”
“Okay, I’ve got it. What do I do with it now?”
“Be sure your knees are bent and your knuckles are forward, then ease it up to your chest. Be careful, now. I don’t want you to hurt yourself. If it’s more than you can handle, just let it drop on the floor.”
The picture in Mr. Potts’ head of what was going on upstairs could only make him wonder why Ron was so concerned with Brenda and not himself. “Perhaps I did get_the short end of the stick,” he thought and couldn’t wait to see how tall Ron was. Then, just as she had promised, Amy showed Mr. Potts the picture of the horse she had colored.
“Do you like my picture, Mr. Potts?”
“It’s a beautiful picture, Amy.”
“It’s a picture of Brenda’s horse, Diamond, but I didn’t put in his pee-pee.”
“That’s probably just as well.”
“Diamond can make his pee-pee disappear. Can you make your pee-pee disappear, Mr. Potts?”
“No, “The Man Upstairs” didn’t give me the ability to do that.”
“Well, if you asked him nicely, Ron would probably give it to you.”
“No, I didn’t mean upstairs here. I meant upstairs in heaven,” Mr. Potts replied and began to wonder if there was a love making marathon going on upstairs. Well, there really wasn’t, but Brenda had finished lifting weights and had moved on to the exercise bench, and Ron was telling her what to do by reading it out of the instruction book that had come with the exercise equipment.
“Okay, Brenda, now slide down to the end of it and bend forward.”
“Like this?”
“Try to keep your legs closer together. See, just like the picture in the book. Now, grip the sides with your hands and, keeping your elbows bent behind you, give a half lunge backwards with your butt just resting on its end. Yea, like that. Now, bring your knees up and into your chest and, at the same time, raise your upper body just a little.”
“Nothing to it. Sorry, I didn’t mean to kick you in the face. What’s next?”
“Well, let’s see what’s in the back of the book. There, that looks interesting. Hold on, you’ll need a yardstick for this one. I’ll buy you a wooden pole tomorrow. I’ll be right back. I’m going to get the yardstick, and, while I’m at it, I’ll grab the camera. This should make a good picture for our album.”
“Hand me the towel over there. I want to wipe some of the sweat off before we start again. Thank you.”
“Okay, are you ready now?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Sit upright on the end and hold the yardstick between your shoulders. Now, breathe in and twist to the right, and then to the left. C’mon, honey, smile. You’re on Candid Camera.”
Within seconds of Ron’s taking Brenda’s picture, they both heard the front door slam shut. Thinking, maybe, Amy had gone outside, they both rushed downstairs to investigate. Well, Amy was standing inside the door, but they saw a man driving off and questioned Amy about the man.
“Who was that man, Amy?” Brenda asked.
“Oh, that was Mr. Potts.”
“What did he want?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why did he leave?”
“He said he had to get home to his wife.”

IT, by dail chaffin

I told him to go get it. He told me he couldn’t find it; this child of mine with long, thick, curly, dark brown hair and big brown puppy-dog eyes. We both knew he hadn’t even looked.
I was his hero, being in the Navy and always coming and going. His mother was the disciplinarian. He would argue with her about anything. For me, he would do anything without question, yet here he sat on my lap insisting he could not find it.
I made a stern face telling him to go Lind it now; leaving no room for discussion. He crawled off my lap, head hanging and marched slowly toward his room. I smiled thinking what a wonderful actor he,would make someday, but stopped when he turned to give me one last sad-eyed look. Seeing it was useless he continued his death march.
My curiosity got the better of me. I tip-toed to his room and peeked in. I found him standing in the middle of his room, head tilted back, staring at the point where the walls join the ceiling. He did this rocking heel-toe step, turning a complete circle never taking his eyes off of that point.
I got back to my chair in the kitchen just in time. He walked in with his head hanging. He crawled unto my lap, hugged my neck, kissed my cheek and said quite earnestly, “I look everywhere!” with a smile I couldn’t hide I said, “Come on...”
It has been many years and I’ve long forgotten what it was.

the dream, by Gabriel Athens

I walked past the slide
almost stepping on the boulder in a children’s marble game.
As I stopped at the swingset,
I heard two girls talking.
Slap bracelets, plastic purses, bows in their hair.
The blue-eyed blonde said to the brown-eyed brunette,
“If you dream that you die,
you will.”
Those brown eyes exploded with fear.
As I walked away,
I stopped and leaned against the jungle gym.
The memories bombarded me -
Why did I have that dream?
Why did I stop myself?
Why didn’t I die?
It was four years ago.
I was walking in a field
where the brown weeds stood a foot tall,
almost entirely covering the wretched, abandoned train tracks.
The pollution-grey sky
occasionally hurled its anger at the ground,
making rippling waves in the dead grass and straw.
I never asked why I was there.
Holding my denim jacket closed with one hand
I put my left hand in the coat pocket.
I felt the cold steel in my hands
and pulled the .22 pistol out into the light.
The polished silver-grey barrel
reflected my fingerprints.
I never asked why it was there.
I stopped walking,
switched off the safety,
turned the gun toward my stomach,
wrapped my finger around the trigger,
pressed my eyes shut, and fired twice.
But I opened my eyes
and stared at the waving weeds
as I felt the heat and the force radiate through me.
As I stood there, I began to hunch over
and all of my senses slowed down.
The weeds moved slowly, and as I started to walk,
my steps became shorter, yet longer to take.
Feeling dizzy, I couldn’t even think.
But I knew it should hurt, and I waited for the pain,
but I just wasn’t dying fast enough.
So I tried to keep walking,
but it felt like I was falling,
and I turned the revolver to my stomach again and fired.
I felt the jolt. I felt the force. I felt the heat.
But it just wasn’t working.
I just wasn’t dying.
So I moved the gun to the side of my head.
One shot rang out.
My ears were ringing - slowly but violently.
Why wasn’t I dying?
I shot at the temple again, and once more.
Walking, slowly, now used to the heat
and only feeling tired.
Then a voice in my head told me to stop the dream
and I woke up.
Beads of sweat dripped down from my temple.
I tasted them
to make sure it wasn’t blood.
I pushed myself away from the jungle gym
as I watched the girls on the swingset.
The brunette stared at the blonde in innocent amazement.
They’re all just lies.
I turned around and walked away,
kicking the dead grass.

this is my burden, by Janet Kuypers

I managed to find a seat on the el
train, for once, I was going to work
early enough
so that it wasn’t very crowded. And
the ride was the same as the el train
always is:
some people reading a paper, a woman
putting on her make-up, most
just staring
out the window at the aging, rattling
tracks, the smattering of gang
graffiti on the
nearby buildings. Ordinary day in
Chicago, slightly overcast. I wear
my sunglasses
just to avoid eye contact with other
train members. We all know this
code: we know
we have to somehow keep our
sense of personal space, our
sense of selves.
I hear a bit of a scuffle behind me,
more the moving of people than
an argument;
nothing to ponder over. Then
a gunshot rings out. I turn around
and catch
a glimpse of two men struggling.
Instantly I duck down, as most
others do.
I crawl down to the floor in front
of my seat, trying to protect
myself, having
no idea who has the gun or which
direction the gun is pointing. I
don’t even know
if this seat in front of me could
protect me from a bullet. There are
screams everywhere;
the gun occasionally going off.
I try to look to see if anyone
was shot, but
am afraid of being in the line
of fire. Another few men jump
in the fight,
in an effort to stop the gunman.
Why is this happening? Was it
an agrument,
or just someone on a shooting
spree? The el comes to a screeching
halt at a stop,
and now comes the question: do we
make a run for it, and risk death,
or will the
gunman try to escape out the doors?
The train ride to here seemed an
eternity,
and now none of us even knows
if we should try to get off the train.
The doors
don’t open. I hear a few gun-
shots; two men scream. The doors
finally open.
A barrage of policemen cover the
doorways. I could glance up and
see them.
Many more screams. They don’t
seem to end. The policemen
rush the
gunman, shoot him before he could
shoot anybody else. It was over.
The next two
hours were spent on the train and
platform answering questions. I
had nothing
to offer them; I barely saw what
happened. They informed me that
it was not an
argument but a man trying to stop
a man about to go on a shooting
spree. Then
the man that survived the struggle
walked up to me, and when no one
was listenening
told me that the gunman walked
down the aisle, stopped four chairs
short of mine,
and aimed for my head. That was
when he jumped up to stop him.
That man
was out to kill me. But I’ve never
met him before, I said, and the man
said he didn’t
need to know my reply, just wanted
to let me know why all this
happened.
This man’s intentions were to kill
me. But why? Did he think I was
someone else?
And now I think of this every day,
the answers still not coming to me.
And I still
have this burden to carry with me,
that all these people died, all of these
people witnessed
this event, and in a way I couldn’t
explain or justify, it was all because
of me.
And this is my burden. All this pain.
All this guilt. All these unanswered
questions.

december, by lyn lifshin

night in
her wrists
the bluebranches,
road maps to
cities fog
blurs

we’ll understand it all by & by, by c ra mcguirt

of course, God
watches the
movie,
but He can always
go out for a
smoke -
after all, God
already knows
everything,
except for the reason
why a large coke
costs two dollars
& fifty cents
at the movies.

in the mirror the woman standing on a towel sees her bulges as curves, her grey hair a rose amber, by lyn lifshin

as I’ve chosen certain
mirrors at ballet,
in any new studio
found the ones I look
thin in, my thighs
in black leotards
like dark scissors.
I never use those scales
that glare at you, dare
you to put a coin in. I
don’t stand dressed or
in shoes on any scale,
especially not the
ones with my reflection
staring back where anyone
in a Five and Dime or
Woolworth’s could see the
numbers race up, jolt
past a hundred as they
would in 7th grade
when Mr. Dewey belted
out how many pounds we
were in front of the
whole class. I remember
my weight in each grade,
like Shirley Maclaine
seeing covers from
her past who says isn’t it
horrid, all I remember
seeing my face in 1970 or
1962 is what man I was
in love with and how
much I weighed.

he’d rather have a paper doll she said, by lyn lifshin

a porn woman. I’d
soak in a tub of bath
oil and hour come back
and drop the towel and
he’d roll over. Even
on our honeymoon he
was out getting skin
flicks he had Play
boy and Penthouse then
things in brown envelopes
stashed behind furniture,
films. I was in competition
even that week in Las
Vegas but I tried
8-1/2 years. I had my
breasts done, belly
but he’d lock himself
in the bathroom for
3 hours I could hear
paper turning he said it
had nothing to do with
me and he’d been such a
gentleman 5 dates before
he even kissed me my
father told his three girls
men just wanted one thing.
I’d wear teddies to bed,
eyelashes I tried suicide
twice never told anyone
thought if I just bought
the right nylon or lace
A real woman intimidates
him on paper he can have
as many, never with cellulite
or scars or hair where it
shouldn’t be doing what
ever he could imagine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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