watching you (2/18/94), by Janet Kuypers

a strand of your hair
falling into your eyes
you brush it behand your ear
you move your head
lean over
it falls again
it curls in just the right way
it makes a perfect tunnel
it directs me
my eyes are drawn
to your beautiful blue eye

Guilt, by John Hayes

With our house quarantined
because of my scarlet fever
and my dad not being allowed to come home
that August was the hottest
and the longest month in history.
As I got better I amused myself
by peeling dead skin off my thighs.
It gave me something to do.
When the quarantine lifted
and my dad could come home again
he didn’t.
My Mom blamed me.
Some days I’d pedal my two wheeler
past an old trolley track into the lip of an alley
park by his dingy tailor shop.
Nine feet, seven inches wide by nineteen deep,
a place to sweat, to eat, to sleep.
It had a toilet.
I never learned where he bathed.
We never talked but he’d offer
me warm canned peaches and a spoon
then continue to sew as he listened
to Ma Perkens and the other soaps.
People said he could fix anything with needle and thread.
I think they meant garments.
I’d watch him awhile
then read one of the comic books
he always kept around for me.
He had a real pretty girl friend.
Her husband traveled.
She smoked a pack a day and ate expensive chocolates.
She’d give me dime tips to run errands
but never her chocolates.
She was nicer to me than my Mom
who’d hit me and yell,
“I wish you’d never been born,”
and borrow my dimes
but not repay me.
I guess I owed her.

picking men like my father, by lyn lifshin

who could never
hold me, wouldn’t
talk. A handsome
man they said he
loved, but
couldn’t show it.
Men with a dark
ness who blackened
the sun sat alone
at kitchen tables
mourning the dawn
men who left just
as I thought my
touching them meant
I could. I tried
the anesthesia of
words for fingers,
tried giving up
my body, drugged,
to men with their
knives, instruments
that might get thru
and cut out what
needed bandages
like an eye that
wouldn’t shut. But
their metal hooks
me men who masturbate
pushing me from
them begging for
love their blacks
and blues, a begging
bowwl cut off as
an amputated limb that
shrivels loses
its muscles scabs
over hard dead inside
as the wooden boat
the amputee stamps on
scowling men who
couldn’t even
stand on their own
see me or hear
anything

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

work stories

his mom’s car, by Janet Kuypers

there was this kid who started working at the plush
horse, he was this fat little geek, thick glasses and
everything, and most of the guys that worked there
were older and not so awkward. well one of them, matt,
decided to make it his personal goal to make fun of
this kid whenever he could, god, i don’t even remember
this kid’s name, something like mark or something, but
i really can’t remember. i guess it doesn’t matter.
but this matt guy really didn’t like him, and no one did,
but i felt kind of sorry for the kid because matt was just
so mean to him. i figured, okay, he’s a geek, he gets
picked on enough, but this really isn’t necessary. well
one day this kid came into the plush horse, and he
wasn’t working that day, and i saw him come in, and
he looked really mad, like i’ve never seen him this mad
before. and so i ask him while he’s walking by, toward
the ice cream counter, i ask, why are you so mad?
and he says that someone keyed his car, messed up
the paint job and everything, and the worst thing was
it was his mother’s car. and then he walks to the ice cream
counter and starts talking to matt and i can’t hear what
they’re saying. so i’m minding my own business, and
the next thing i know i hear the kid yell, right in the
middle of this ice cream shop, he yells fuck you
to matt, and he starts walking away. and matt says,
yeah, that’s what i wrote on your car. and i remember
looking at matt with such disgust when he said that,
and after the kid left i told him that he just went too far.
so then two weeks later i went to the grocery store with
lisa and we bought a bottle of cheap dish washing
liquid called Pink Lady, and we went to the parking
lot of the plush horse while matt was working and we
squirted the Pink Lady all over matt’s windshield. we
figured that if he used washer fluid it would just make
this big soapy mess, but at least there was no permanent
damage. and the worst thing was that it was his mom’s car.

Independence Day Came Again This Year, by John Hayes

In 1919 America’s inquisitor,
J. Edgar Hoover, a young and rising star
did summon Emma Goldman,
an advocate of birth control,
free speech and other heinous convictions.
His verbal skills, his acumen,
(but certainly not venom)
resulted in her deportation
with 247 others.
J. Edgar used the system.
Gathered accolades and laurels.
Though some would still rebuke him
all true Americans support
his enduring affirmation,
“I ask, you tell.”
He saved his land from anarchy,
reds and communism.
And damn near labor unions.
When civil rights became the law,
he sanctioned it.
Were he alive today,
J. Edgar would
most boldly battle
against all crime,
unless, of course, it’s organized.
He never fought the system.

room, by Gabriel Athens

stairs
worn
right
days
hall
hall
around
anymore
couch
facing
room
to
myself
today
snap
open
creak
drawn
light
fear
again
anger
kicked
again
sweat
couldn’t
do
bedroom
fists
walls
rage
muscles
eyebrows
lips
sweat
bedroom
stomach
face
arms
hair
apart
again
face
sheets
screams
me
pain
light
bedroom
symbol
ethic
told
society
eyes
mine
Hell
dresser
pictures
me
frame
edges
floor
dresser
down
bedroom

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

ice cream stain, by Janet Kuypers

so steve, a real flirt (it always annoyed me), once
noticed that i had an ice cream stain on my shirt,
from working, and it was right at the center of my
chest, and he said, you know, i bet you have it there
just so all of us will look at your chest. and i thought
that this guy was just trying so hard to be funny, but
wasn’t.

The Patriot, by John Hayes

George Quisenberry was a dedicated and patriotic American. A suave, handsome and charming war hero he had reached, at the young age of forty-six, the second highest office in the land, the vice presidency. Stories of his womanizing went unheeded. Surely he was not to blame if women could not resist his elegance of manners and poise.
His chief, Reginald Qualm, a conservative but ambivalent man, was again about to compromise with individuals who did not fully share George’s patriotic devotion to principle. Sickened by such cowardly political expedients and driven by love of country George realized that he must act heroically.
This was not a task George undertook lightly but he knew from his war experiences as a Public Relations Captain that lives must, on occasion, for the greater good, be sacrificed. Realizing that the risk of detection was slim, particularly considering that he would be sworn in as president, George did, on April, 10, 2022 poison the president.
As George repeated his oath of office he realized with some trepidation that a similar fate could overtake him unless he carefully chose his vice president. Fortunately George came from a rich aristocratic family. His eighty three year old father, long active in politics and for the past thirty years congressional representative of a moderate and affluent district was a natural choice.
Despite critics’ cries of nepotism George’s father, Cecil became vice president. Secretly George’s choice was approved by many since the selection left wide open the race to be George’s successor.
George’s father, a crafty politician and always a strong supporter of George’s career even if at times he did not fully share his son’s extreme conservatism took naturally to his new position. After being in office for only four months it was necessary for him to act as president for three weeks when George narrowly escaped death from a bomb thrown by a radical nihilist.
When George recovered Cecil was despondent. He had tasted pure power and was loath to give it up.
On April 11, 2023 Cecil suggested to George they hunt rhinoceros for a week in Kenya. George, an avid sportsman, readily agreed. The Kenyan President was contacted by George’s Secretary of State and a diplomatic visit scheduled. Cynical reporters asked why this expensive trip was necessary. George, convincing as always, assured them that world peace and profitable trade agreements were at stake.
On April 15, 2023 while on rhinoceros hunt Cecil shot and killed his son George.
Publicly distraught Cecil maintained, “I aimed at the animal.”
After being sworn in as President Cecil assured the country that George’s policies would be carried out. Cecil’s initial act was to promote all seventeen of the secret service agents who had accompanied him to Kenya followed by a granting of unprecedented authority to his Secretary of State.
He procrastinated over his choice for Vice President. “It’s not too important a job,” he said.
A widower and still virile Cecil took George’s young ambitious widow, Jackie, as his confidant and companion.
After three months and with the media clamoring for a vice president she insisted that he appoint her.
“Aside from you no one else is qualified to carry out George’s policies,” she argued.
Although some radical feminists felt otherwise most voters regarded her ascendancy to the presidency following Cecil’s untimely death three months later a good thing.

Poetry.

I remember my friend Diane, when she was judging work to be accepted into the literary magazine she was staffing, found a poem she liked. I can’t remember who it was by, or even what it was about, but the rhyme and the meter and the use of repetition was very good. I’m not one for liking rhyme, I prefer prose poetry or free-form, but I must admit that this was pretty good. But Diane - as she read this poem over and over again, she became more and more excited. “Just listen to this”, she’d say, and she’d rattle off the first verse again to me. She too preferred unmetered poetry, but she fell in love with this. She loved to read it aloud, and she loved going over it in her head. She just loved the sound of the poem, the pleasing quality it had to her ear, and not necessarily the message the poem had. But she loved it.
That is what poetry is to me. It is something that charges a person up inside; it is something that you like reading the one hundredth time as much as the first. I doesn’t have to convey a deep, great message to all; it can hold a special place in your own heart because of a past memory, a dream, or anything. But it can have that meaning, too - and that is precisely why people may find poetry with deeper sentiment so appealing. And it can fill one person up with joy and do nothing for the next person; the important matter is that it thrills that one person. It can be rhyme, it can be prose - basically, I think anything can be poetry as long as it’s written - and if it’s not written, then it is merely poetry waiting to be expressed, or put to paper.
I find myslef using the term “poetic” quite often in reference to things that are not poetry. Usually I refer to things that way that strike me and stir me, if they stir my senses or if they stir my soul. If I find a poetic scene like that, I suppose that if I were able to express in words what I see and make those words stir a person, then I’ve created a poem. I’d almost venture to say that the word ‘poetic’ is the quality of something that makes you utterly fall in love with it, and the word ‘poem’ are the written words that either evoke the imagery that made you fall in love, or evoke sounds that make you fall in love.
Sometimes, when someone reads a poem of mine, they don’t get a reaction. They think it’s nice, or whatever, but the idea doesn’t stir them the way it stirrs me. Maybe this is because that idea wouldn’t stir them. Maybe it’s because the idea can’t be put into words. Maybe it can.

Alexandria Rand

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

in a cardboard box, by Janet Kuypers

so we were talking about out sat and act scores,
because were were all the same age and were taking
our college entrance exams. so i asked steve
what he got on the act test. it’s like a thirty-six
point scale, and upper twenties is good enough for
a four-year college. and steve said, i got a nine; i
tied with the chimp. what a card. then we were talking
about this party, and i told him that he should have
a party, and he said he couldn’t. why not, i asked, and
he said he was homeless, that he lives in a cardboard
box. and i said, then why do your parents drive a
lincoln town car? and he didn’t have an answer. and i
wondered if he sat at home at nights and rehearsed these
clever lines for the next day, or if they just came naturally.

the daughter i don’t have, by lyn lifshin

wouldn’t have to go over
all the old hurts,
everything in the
past, as if to know
who she is now or
might have been.
She won’t string the
“what ifs” or “might
have beens” into beads
she twists into a choker,
sleeps in, feels press
into dreams of where
whoever left is still
leaving, a chicken bone
caught in a throat,
hook that tears
more when she tries
to pull it out. The
daughter I don’t have
could close doors,
walk out in the
rain and see the
pools of water
as stars

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...

The World’s Full of ‘Em

Ken Pell

My wife and I were on our way back home to Indianapolis. We’d been on a trip to Florida to visit her parents, and decided to stop in Atlanta at 2 a.m. for coffee. Our waitress at Lindy’s Truckstop was named Trixie. No kidding.
“Coffee?” she asked, whirling to a stop in front of our table.
“Please,” I said. “And some cream and sugar.”
She filled our mugs and reached into a pocket of her apron. “Sorry,” she said, “But this dry cream’s all we got left. There’s sugar on the table.” She smiled and walked away, her apron strings shaking behind her like a happy puppy’s tail.
My wife had been to the rest room, but she soon returned to the table.
“Did you order?” she asked.
“I didn’t know what you wanted.”
She tore open one of the cream packages and frowned. “Now, Bill,” she said, “I told you in the car that I wanted pancakes. Weren’t you listening?”
Of course I hadn’t been. “Yeah, I heard you,” I lied, “But I thought maybe you’d want blueberry pancakes.”
Maggie, my lovely wife, splashed two or three heaping spoons of sugar into her coffee. “You know I just want regular pancakes,” she went on. “I never eat any kind but regular.”
Shit, I thought. She’d eat anything that even resembled food.
When Trixie came back to take our order I noticed how she seemed to be smiling, especially at me. And then she seemed to have a seductive tone to her voice when she asked me if I wanted my syrup heated up.
Bored, and depressed about returning home, I began to take an interest in the girl. She looked like she was in her early twenties, brown hair, freckles, blue eyes, sweet smile, and no wedding ring or tattoos. I wanted to strike up a conversation with her, but not with my wife sitting there. My charming, angelic wife...
“I’m sleepy,” Maggie said, stretching, after she’d gobbled her griddle cakes like a starved mountain lion. She had syrup all over her mouth. “Are you about ready?”
I faked a yawn, even though I wasn’t really tired. The coffee and Trixie had helped wake me up. “No,” I said, also stretching, “I think I’m too tired to drive any more tonight. Maybe we’d better just stay here tonight at the motel.”
I might as well have slapped her. “What do you mean, ‘stay here!’ I thought we left Florida a day early so you could get back to work. We were supposed to drive straight through.”
“I know,” I yawned again, “But it’s not worth having an accident. One night isn’t going to matter. We’ll get a real early start in the morning.”
Surprisingly, she agreed. It must have been the part about having an accident.
As soon as we checked into a room, Maggie took the warm shower I suggested and then fell asleep. The room was crummy, the walls paper-thin, but the noise from all of the semi’s outside provided the camouflage I needed to slip out.
“You again?” Trixie asked as I sat down in a booth. She seemed obviously delighted to see me.
I grinned brightly. “Yep, I just couldn’t sleep. I had to see YOU again.”
My God, did I just say that, I thought? The words had slipped out of my mouth so fast.
Trixie’s blue eyes answered my question. My remark about seeing her again, I realized, had been a question: “Are you interested in me?” And though I already knew, I needed her to tell me. And she did. With a sparkle from her eyes.
“Where’s your wife?” Trixie asked, and my fantasy began to fall apart.
I thought fast. Really fast. I knew I had to.
“You mean that woman who was with me earlier?” I laughed. “That wasn’t my wife. That’s my sister. We’re on our way to Florida to see our father. He’s in a retirement home down there and he’s not well.”
No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I felt like throwing up. Why did I have to involve my family in the lie, and especially my father? What an awful, cold-hearted, selfish lie. My dad in a retirement home in Florida!
“Your sister?” Trixie seemed skeptical. “She doesn’t look like you.”
“We’re both adopted,” I blurted, the lies rolling off my tongue like a wad of spit.
“Coffee?” she asked, still smiling sweetly.
“Huh? Oh, okay,” I answered. I hadn’t really thought about ordering anything.
“Why aren’t you out with your boyfriend tonight?” I asked, the dumbest come-on line in the world. But she didn’t have one, she said. She was on the rebound. Her last boyfriend had been a real creep.
“Well, the world’s full of ‘em,” I said, winking and sipping my coffee. Trixie didn’t seem to be in any big hurry to leave my table, the civilian section of the greasy spoon not being too busy, so I went on. “Why don’t you take a break or something? We could talk?”
I didn’t know what she’d say, but she spun around, walked away, and then turned to face me again.
“Back in a flash,” she said.
I could see the freckles on her nose. Wow, I thought. This is great. She didn’t even ask me any more about my sister. She didn’t even ask me how old I am. She doesn’t know anything about me. For all she knows I could be an axe murderer. I grinned to myself when I thought of Maggie snoring away obliviously in the motel room. She’s made my life a living hell, I thought. Well, here’s where I get something back. If I’m going to live in hell I might as well enjoy it. Trixie. Wow.
Minutes later Trixie was back and sitting right across from me-bright-eyed, sweet, full of pep, happy-everything Maggie wasn’t. Every word that came from Trixie’s mouth excited me. She had a child-like enthusiasm and was unbearably cute. I felt like a high school senior all over again, trying to think of some way I could talk her into sleeping with me. But I knew I had to approach the subject delicately. We chit chatted for a half hour or so, but I let her do most of the talking. I didn’t want the subject of my “sister” to come up again.
Finally the conversation began to die down and I knew it was time to move in a different direction. I took a last big gulp of coffee and (telling her my sister was asleep in our motel room) asked Trixie if we could maybe go to her apartment since she’d told me that she lived only a few miles from Lindy’s. My heart raced as I waited for an answer.
“Let’s go,” she said, grabbing her coat and purse. “I’ll just tell Carol I won’t be back tonight. We’re not busy anyway.”
I almost collapsed. I couldn’t believe it was all happening so easily. I’m almost old enough to be her father, I thought.
But as we headed to the front door of Lindy’s, something terrible happened.
“Where in the hell do you think you’re going?” a woman’s hoarse voice yelled out.
Trixie’s face turned white and so did mine. But it wasn’t Maggie. I’d never seen this woman before. This woman was gross, masculine-looking, a savage expression on her face. Then again, I think I HAVE seen her, I thought. In a movie called AMAZONS FROM PLANET MARS.
“I asked you where you think you’re going?” the woman said again. She was confrontational, in a stance to pounce and scratch, bite, pull hair, punch. She glared at Trixie.
“Ignore her,” Trixie said, grabbing my hand.
“What?” I whispered. “What’s going on? Who is she?”
“I’ll tell you who I am,” the woman shouted bombastically. People coming in and out were beginning to stare. “I’m Trixie’s woman. Did you tell him that Trix? Did you tell him we’re married.”
“We are NOT married, and I wish you’d quit telling people that,” Trixie said, tightening the grip on my hand. “Now let’s go.”
But the terrible woman followed us outside.
“I ain’t letting no man get a hold of my Trixie,” she said, grabbing Trixie’s arm. She began whispering in Trixie’s ear, quietly, but far from tenderly. “Come on, honey. I thought ya loved me. Why are ya bein’ so mean to me?”
“You don’t own me, Lydia, so just go away.” Trixie didn’t seem to be embarrassed, she was just angry.
All I wanted to do, though, was run away. I’ve always tried to keep an open mind when it comes to other people’s sexual preferences, but this was just too weird. I could see myself fighting a lesbian in a truckstop parking lot at three-thirty in the morning and ending up in jail and Maggie having to bail me out and then listening to her bitch all the way home. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be safe in that motel room right now drinking a beer and watching TV, I thought. What in the hell made me decide to do this? Maybe I should have Dr. Jarvis neuter me when we get home.

“Hey, you,” the wicked lesbian grabbed me by the shirt collar. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”
Before I could say anything, Trixie pulled me her way. “Let’s go!” she groaned. “Buzz off, Lydia, we’re leaving. He’s spending the night with me.” She planted a big, wet kiss on my lips and tried to stick her tongue in my mouth, but I wouldn’t let her. Lydia was glaring at me and seemed ready to fight. For all I knew she could have had a knife or a gun.
Oh, fuck, I thought. I’ve got to get out of here now.
“Excuse me!” I said firmly. I have to go to the bathroom. Why don’t the two of you talk things over for a few minutes and I’ll be right back.”
“Yeah, why don’t you COME RIGHT BACK,” Lydia said, her words thick with sarcasm. “I ain’t done with you yet.”
I half-smiled at Trixie as I let go of her hand and shuffled back inside. Then I quickly exited out a back door and up to the motel room.
I had to stop before entering, I was so out of breath. Maggie rolled over when I opened the door. “Where you been?” she asked sleepily.
For the first time in a long while, Maggie’s words were comforting to me.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I said. “I had to take a walk. All that riding in the car today made me antsy. Plus all that coffee.” I sat down on my end of the bed and began pulling my shoes off.
Maggie rolled back over and snuggled up in the thin blanket. “A walk?” she mumbled. “Well, you’d better be careful. You’re likely to get mugged in a grimy place like this.”
I didn’t say anything. I just layed back on the hard mattress and drifted off to sleep next to my trusting, predictable wife, dreaming of the long drive home, and another dull day back at the office.

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.