STRAIGHT FROM THE MORGUE

    Oh, that it was so easy to reproduce you. Simple as pulling a newspaper clipping from a wallet, unfolding it. Then you rose out of the photo and tumble of print beneath. As if this was the most normal thing in the world.
    “You’re a little yellow around the gills. Must be jaundice coming on.” Answered only by that look: you twit. How’d you look if you were carried around in somebody’s billfold, carelessly creased, never seeing the light of day but once in every, oooh, I almost forgot, willya lookit this, however many years? Enough to rile anyone’s acids.
    Especially when you’re just a paper thin apparition of your former self. Much simpler to send you back. Tear the sheet in half down its length or crosswise. Yet that’s no real solution. Just leaves behind half a memory, sharp enough to paper cut, bleed out whole, best forgotten yesterdays.

Goofy Kids

    Way back when you and I were young, our folks bought us generic sneakers for five bucks at the local Woolworth’s store, and we wore them till they were smooth on the bottoms and all our toes were cramped up at the front. None of these modern two-hundred-dollars-or-more sneakers for us--the kind kids must have nowadays or “die” of embarrassment!
    And these goofy kids nowadays are always “losing” them one way or another. Just last Wednesday I was driving home from the market, and a gang of five or six kids--three or four small boys and a couple of slightly older girls--were playing in the street half a block ahead of me. When they saw me coming, two of them put something small in the middle, at the left edge of my lane, and then they all ran and sat down on the curb to watch what I was going to do.
    Thirty feet away, I could see it was a kid’s blue sneaker, and they all wanted me to drive my wheels right over it. In fact when I slowed down and swerved slightly, the two girls jumped up and began to shout, “Run over it! Please, mister! Run over it!”
    I smiled at them and at the boys and shook my head slowly. All of them looked disappointed, especially the little kid who was sitting on the curb wearing just one sneaker.
    In my rear-view mirrors, I could see him taking off his other sneaker, and one of the girls tied its laces to those of the sneaker I had just driven around. Then she began tossing the two joined sneakers straight up towards the telephone lines that were above the street.
    Huh! thought I. That kid wants his folks to get him a newer, “better” pair, so he’s having his “friends” help him wreck the ones he has! I saw the sneakers land twice near the girl before I turned the corner to my house, but I felt a little bad for the poor parents who were going to be victimized.
    Anyways, garbage pick-up in my neighborhood is always on Thursday mornings, and so I was hauling my trash and recycle stuff out to the curb that Wednesday evening after dinner. It was still fairly light out, and danged if I didn’t see a little pair of sneakers silhouetted against the sky, hanging right over my driveway where the cablevision line crosses to my house.
    Those dang little scamps! thought I, and I went and got my garden rake and step ladder from my garage.
    After I got those sneakers down, I went indoors and got a couple of plastic bags to put them in, and then I tucked them down inside a paper bag with my own garbage. What would you have done? Those dang kids! There was a little left foot inside the left sneaker.

THE JUNGLE

    We waited for the American outside the shop. It was ten past twelve. Bet he isn’t going to show, grumbled Gaz. We’ll give it half an hour, I said, Then we’ll go. The day was very hot, the sky a deep clear blue. The middle of the day, and we were the only ones in the street. Gaz smoked a cigarette staring into the glass. What do you think about all this? he said. Better not to know, I replied, Useful if we get any trouble though. He nodded, Yeah. Keep on the right side of him for sure. Oh, he’s ok, I said, Seems to like us. We’re white after all. Gaz started to laugh, smoke belching out of his mouth, White might is right, America, he grinned, Fucking America, seig heil. Hey, you guys, I’m late. The American was strolling up the street in the shade, I got held up. The guy who was supposed to give me this was late. He waved a fat roll of newspaper. You wait till we get into this. Glad you could make it. He was sweating heavily, his purple T shirt soaked through. Don’t worry, I said, We’ve only been here about ten minutes. The American was rummaging with his keys and the lock, You guys all right? I’ll roll a couple of cigars, and then we’ll get going. Lucky with the weather. How’s work? I asked. Oh, quiet, everyone’s on holiday. Gonna get busy though, got a visit in a month. Someone coming down from the north. A big shot.
    The shop was blissfully cool. You guys sit down, I’ll be a couple of minutes. We sat at the table beneath the chandelier, the sweat cooling on our brows. Now get a look at this. He carefully unraveled the newspaper, revealing part of a lush green bush. The quantity and the odour were intimidating. I could tell it was going to be stronger than the stuff the night before. Gaz looked at me and raised his eyebrows. Good, I said. Oh, yes, said the American, This is the mother of all plants. That guy you met last night, the guy with the hands. His father grows this out in the country. Fresh, absolutely fresh. Plants as high as this room. In the hills. He quickly rolled two Havanas, slipping them into a tin which he shoved into his pocket. Then he packed more weed into two old Marlboro cartons. For you guys. We’ll pick it up on the way back. For you to enjoy at your leisure. Should last you a while. I’m leaving again soon so I’ll give you some now. In case I don’t see you. Thanks, I said. Yeah man, thanks a load, said Gaz. The American grinned, De nada. Vamoos. I can get it any time. He locked the door, and we started walking.
    The town had been a Spanish fort, built when they defeated the Olmecs. The old quarter was clustered around a steep hill, the cathedral and the houses constructed from crude blocks of stone. We walked downhill over cobbles through narrow winding streets, the houses becoming shabbier as we reached the outskirts. Cobbles gave way to dirt. Dense vegetation seemed to be trying to invade the modest space carved out by human beings. When we could see the beginning of the jungle, we were in a shanty town, an illegal settlement. There was no road, just paths between the shacks beaten into the dirt by generations of bare feet. The inhabitants were Indians. They stood watching us as if we had just stepped out of a UFO. They’re harmless, said the American, They think we’re gods.
    We crossed the red dirt soccer fields, and entered the jungle. For a while, I could still hear the occasional sound of a truck, or hammering, a car horn, but these fragile reminders were eventually lost, the only sounds being the crunch of our footfalls on the path, the infrequent shrill call of a bird high up in the treetops. Twilight, impossible to know the time. Where exactly are we going? asked Gaz. It was an obvious question, but we hadn’t yet ventured it. The American turned round and grinned, Lambs to the slaughter. Thought you’d never ask. Like I told you, there’s an old farm in a clearing, about half an hour from here. We don’t want to go too far otherwise we’ll have to set off early, to get out before dusk. It’s a drag to be here after dark. This guy used to farm duraznos, but he died and the place went to pieces. No-one lives there, and the place is full of trees busting with fruit. You’ll see. I come here every year. Usually park the jeep on the other side of the hill and cart the fruit off. I stared at the droplets of sweat dripping from the American’s ear. It was hard to imagine a clearing. Hard to imagine anyone wanting to come out here and farm. I wondered how the man had died. Either side of us impenetrable forest, the odour overwhelming, a mixture of new leaves and decay. Clots of fungi. Occasionally the path was lost, but the American knew the route, pushing through the foliage with his arms. I realized why he wanted to be out by dusk. We trudged along in silence, the American out in front, then me, then Gaz because he was tall and had trouble with the branches and vines. The air was stifling, the sweat pouring down us. I would never do this alone, and it was good to see that the American knew what he was doing. I began to wonder about snakes and insects, but I didn’t say anything fearing that I would appear foolish. No-one talked because of the effort, and conversation seemed out of place.
    Here we are, said the American at last. He pushed into a clearing. I could hear a stream, and the air was suddenly cooler. Like entering a cave hacked out of the vegetation. A little grassy meadow, the stream at the bottom of a small hill. The sun penetrated, a sword of dusty golden light. Through the trees I could see the ruins of a stone farm house. All around, planted at intervals, trees laden with duraznos ready to pick, the fruit ripe yellow. Damn, will you look at that, said the American. Who lived here? asked Gaz. Oh, an old fellow, a Frenchman. Married a local girl back in the ‘20s, after the Revolution, and he farmed this place till he died. He’s buried up there with his wife. The fruit still comes along every year. I always leave some fruit on their graves. The American pulled out the tin. We’ll have us a couple of tokes on this, and then we’ll get some fruit. Go ahead and start. He handed a lighter and the cigar to Gaz. Concentrating, Gaz carefully lit the end, sucking slowly, inhaling, then once more. Smoke flooded out, momentarily obscuring his head. He passed it to me. Whooooa, he said, as the smoke cleared, God. He seemed to stagger. I drew on the cigar, holding the smoke, then I took another drag. I passed it to the American. I was instantly stoned. The American took three tokes, stubbing out the joint when Gaz and I indicated we’d had enough. Strong? Bloody dynamite, said Gaz, Jesus. See what you mean, I agreed, realizing all of a sudden how much we needed the American. The undergrowth buzzing around me. A pleasant crashing behind the eyes, the air full of life. I didn’t know where the hell I was. We couldn’t get back on our own. I wondered if Gaz had woken to this. But it was all right. The American wasn’t going to disappear. He placed the tin on a stump. I’ll leave this with you, if you want any more. I’m going up to get some fruit. I’ll bring some back. The American strolled towards the end of the clearing and I watched him vanish over the brow of the hill among the trees. He saw that we were not in a state to walk.
    I could barely feel my legs and, when I tried to move, I stumbled. Gaz laughed picking up the tin. It’s not funny, I said starting to chuckle, then I was laughing uncontrollably, disturbing the silence. It was like laughing in church. Shhhh, said Gaz. Who’s there? I asked. Gaz looked around, You never know. Imagine living here, the Frenchman, at night. Remembering the graves, I shivered, lost, Hey shut it will you. Where’s he gone? Gaz stared, Dunno. Jesus. I peered through the trees. Far away I could hear stamping, then shouting, Man this is a bumper crop, I’m coming back here with some buckets. The American was on the hill behind the farm house. Jesus I hope he doesn’t fuck off and leave us here, said Gaz. I nodded, Too right. That’s some bloody strong stuff, eh? Yeah. We stood in silence listening for something. Just the occasional screech of the bird. Bloody quiet, you’d never think it was this quiet, can you believe it’s this quiet? It’s not so quiet with you rambling on, I said. He grinned, Silence, the deep silent silence. Think they have leopards here? You what? Leopards, he continued, Leo Pardis, the spotted lion. No way. Then I remembered, Jaguars maybe. Jaguars? Yeah. Unlikely though. But just imagine, I muttered, Just imagine, you’re standing here, and then out from the path, a growl, a Jaguar. What would you do? I’d hot-wire it and drive it back to Liverpool, said Gaz. We studied the end of the clearing. The vision, a huge striped face leering out of the green. Beautiful and deadly. Last moments, the realization of death. I thought of an old British film. The African night. The horses panicking as something rustles beyond the kraal. The hero coolly saying to his delicate wife, Lion Marjorie, as he loads the .303. I stared at Gaz, Lion Marjorie. He jumped, Hey shut it all right. I don’t want to think about it. I can’t bloody move, that stuff’s got me legs. Me too, I said, Fucking crazy. We stood opposite each other and started to laugh again. Gaz’s eyes were swollen and red. Tears running down his face. I could barely stand, my stomach muscles were bunched and I couldn’t breathe. Finally I managed to ask, What’s so funny? He scratched his face where an insect had bitten him, I was thinking, you know, I’d forgotten, this is the fucking cricket season back home. Can you imagine, I mean what the fuck are we doing here? We’re in the middle of the bloody jungle. Somewhere someone is coming in to bowl, the pleasant pock of pig skin on willow, and here we are standing in the bloody jungle. Out of our gourds. And I’ve got my passport with me and all me papers. Not much use out here, eh? Cricket. Absurdly abstract, the word, the game. Concepts so funny we had to sit down. Shhhh. What? He’ll hear. Who? The Frenchman. Shut up. No, the American, he’ll think we’re nuts. Ah, he’s stoned too, said Gaz, He knows all about it, same radio channel. Where the hell is he anyway? We were alone in the silence. Was he watching us? What if he had brought us here to rob us, to kill us. He might be a pathological killer. All the myths about Americans. Crazed Vietnam Veterans. Panic tore into my mind, savaging. We didn’t know him. He could be anyone. I looked at Gaz to see if he was on the same band wave, but he was absentmindedly staring at a large leafy plant. A fern. Beneath the plant something moving. My senses took their time to classify what I was seeing. A large hirsute creature oozing over the ground through the grass, changing shape as it progressed. I looked closer. A clump of hundreds of hairy caterpillars, clustering together, flowing slowly up the slope. My God do you see that? I whispered. Yeah, said Gaz, Caterpillars, never seen anything like it. You don’t want to fall into that. Sting the fuck out of you. We watched the apparition, mesmerized. Hanging together for protection. Like fish in the sea. The ever-present lurking danger within the harmonious beauty. Comfortably forgotten in quiet English suburbs.
    You guys wanna come up here? The voice surprised us and we wheeled around as if we had been caught smoking at school. We can’t really walk properly, I said. The American was grinning, Told you it was strong. It deserves a word other than strong, said Gaz, Strong is not the word, brain damaging more like. The American clambered down the slope, pushing through the trees. Get a look at these here duraznos. He opened a plastic bag. Have some. We took the fruit, biting into the soft sweet flesh. Juice dribbled down my chin. Bloody good, I said, Just right. I spat some seeds. The American pointed towards the hill, I’m going to come back with the jeep, the old track beyond. Bring a couple of buckets and grab some. They’re just here for the birds right now. Going to waste. When did the Frenchman die? asked Gaz. Oh, about thirty years ago. And no-one claimed the land? Nope. Just went back to the jungle. The graves have something to do with it. The locals think the land still belongs to the Frenchman and his wife. Why I always leave some fruit on their graves. Like they’re still here. Some Indians live out in a clearing nearby, but apart from them there’s nothing for the next two hundred miles. Just the jungle. Then the border and more jungle. And beyond that a war. You come out here much? I asked. Now and then, to get away from it all, bring a joint and get some peace and quiet. Once hiked in a couple of days and camped. Awful spooky though on your own. At night. Never seem to get used to it. Who knows what the fuck’s out there. Reminds me of Nam sometimes, ‘cept there’re no slopes trying to fuck me up. Just a bunch of confused Indians trying to hang onto the old ways. Gotta watch it though, always gotta watch it when you’re on your own out here. I was trying to spook him about Jaguars, I said, pointing at Gaz. Bloke’s a madman, said Gaz defending himself. Jaguars? No Jaguars here for at least fifty years, said the American, Killed them all off because of the cattle. Nothing out here can do you much harm. A few rattlers, and you gotta watch the coral snakes. They can take you out. Spiders maybe, a few widows around. Some bad plants and fungi. Nothing much. But there’s the chupacabras, he added, That’s what gets me when I’ve come out here to camp. Feel like a child all over again, I’m ashamed to say. The chupa what? said Gaz. The American frowned, wiping the sweat off his face, The chupacabras. Something out here kills cattle, especially goats. For some reason goats. No-one knows what it is. No-one’s ever seen it. Leaves the goats sucked dry of everything. Just the husk of their skin. Two big puncture marks, and sucked dry inside, no guts left, just the skin. A recent thing. Only been going on for about a year or two. No people as yet though. But they say it’s just a matter of time. Holy shit, muttered Gaz. You’re not joking? I said. No, absolutely serious, replied the American, Swear to God. Guys have come out here with guns at night to try to kill it, whatever it is. No-one’s ever seen anything. Hear stuff though, strange screaming. Happens about once or twice a year. The Indians say it’s the Devil. Leaves strange three toed prints, walks on two legs. You’re messing us around, I said. No, insisted the American, Really. I mean it. Swear to God. What do you think it is? asked Gaz. No idea. The American paused, Maybe it is the Devil. An eerie silence ensued. Just the monotonous shrill bird call that seemed to originate in my head.
    We wandered off, each our separate ways. I wanted to look at the stream to see if I could spot any fish. Gaz was kneeling, examining some mushrooms. The American was standing at the edge of the clearing. He was listening. Something had attracted his attention. Edgy, I watched him. He turned round and held up his hand. Silence. Then I heard. Hermaaaana. Hermaniiiita. Puuuuto. Far away, muffled, way down the trail, echoing. Gaz stood up. Hermaniiiita, puto gringo, hermaniiiita. Voices carrying through the trees, on the breeze, still far away but growing nearer. Puuuuuto cabrooooon. The American had not moved. Gaz came over. What the fuck’s that, he whispered. Someone coming down the trail, I replied, my throat dry with fear, Sounds like several people, not friendly. Hermaaana, hermaniiita. Puuuto griiiingo. Grim calculations already doing their work. The neutral isolation mocking. We could be in serious trouble. It had to be. We had been seen leaving the town. Three gringos, heading into the jungle, beyond the law. Time for revenge. A posse, some local gang. Leather jackets, explosive aggression. Knives. That was the way here, no rules, we were in America, a long way from anywhere. A chance to stomp some whites, spill blood for the humiliations of generations returning with stories of abuse from across the border. We were going to pay for beefy Texans perpetrating hatred on migrants in squalid border jails. No use trying to explain to them, I say old man, wait a minute, actually, you know what, we’re not Americans, actually, rather, British you know old chap, we’re not responsible, it’s really not cricket. Maybe the gringos were carrying money. They knew what we were doing. We were easy meat, out of our heads with marijuana. Just three of us. Ten could take us. Maybe there were more. We were really up the Khyber. I remembered the unique trauma of a fist connecting with my head. The jolting nausea. My brief encounter with university boxing, when I thought I should toughen up a bit, get fit. The controlled environment, a ring with a referee. University boxing when I thought I was tough. That was bad enough, the numbing blows, the blood, the crunching pain of fists hitting nasal cartilage. Here no control, no referee, no Marquis of Queensbury. We were really in for it. At best a severe beating, at worst . . . Hermaaaaana, puto griiingo, yo te chingo hermaniiiiita. The voices nearer. Multiplying. Oblivious to our reactions, the American was quickly working on a large piece of wood, busting it down to form a crude club.
    Gaz and I stared at each other, pale with fear. My mouth was so dry, I could barely speak. What do you think’s going to happen? I rasped. The dull Liverpudlian accent, resonant with innate traditional violence, Dunno, wait and see. He was a big lad, he had been bricked when he was fifteen. He knew what was coming. Shaking, he started to remove his watch. I followed suit. We were going to make a stand. We had to. There was no choice. There was nowhere to go. The grim logic horrifying. Hermaniiiiiita, puuuuuto griiiingo. Hermaniiiita. Puuuuutooooo. They were close. A couple of minutes, and they would be on us. Maybe twenty of them. I imagined the charging faces filled with blood lust, the smell of violence and sweat. The voices seeming to multiply. There would be a brief exchange of blows, flashing glaring pain, shouts, the loosening of bowels, then a pummeling that might know no end. Our parents receiving news from the efficient clinical consul, They were last seen walking towards the jungle. No traces have been found. We’re terribly sorry. A small footnote in the news back home, Students Disappear In Mexico. And everyone thinking, Silly little prats, getting lost in the jungle. Dr. Wright at the beginning of the academic year, And really, no-one has the slightest idea what happened to them. Some might think we did a bunk, and just shacked up with some local women never to return. Pub myths, while our bodies finished rotting in the undergrowth. Maybe someone would stumble on our bones. We would lie near the Frenchman and his wife. Hermaaaaana. Hermaaaaaniiiita. Puuuuto. The American was jogging towards us holding the club, not a trace of fear, Should’ve brought a gun, godammit, don’t know why I didn’t. Fuck it, that would sort it out, the motherfuckers. He pointed, When they come, they’ll be out on that path yonder, where we came from. Stick together and fight the hell out of them. Hit them as hard as you can. Really fucking go for them. Show no fear. Sounds like quite a few, but if we make a good stand we might have a chance. A clichè as suddenly real. America, the old logic of the West. Make a circle and fight like hell. Go down fighting. How did we get into this mess? How many hapless fools asked themselves the same question, stuck on the plains while maniac savages closed in for the kill? All those westerns, films about English country lads fighting off Pathans, bayonets, crazed Zulus with assegais, rubbish you watched on a Sunday afternoon with beer, the rain pouring outside, battles you read about, Rorke’s Drift, Gordon and the siege of Khartoum, it was about to become our reality except no-one would ever read about it. How we fell under a rain of blows, gloriously beaten to death. I was shaking uncontrollably. Gone quiet, said the American, They’ll be coming soon. I could see the strain in his knuckles gripping the wood. We waited, staring at the foliage, silent.
    Movement up the path. Positioning maybe, checking us out before the final confrontation. Here they come, said the American. He moved forwards. Gaz and I followed. From my stomach, flowing like sludge through my body into my knees, I felt an embracing weakness. A deadly fatigue. I wanted to lie down and get it over. I wanted to sleep. Stoned. Of all the times to go into a fight. The American slapped the club into his hand, feeling the weight. Just like the old days, he muttered grimly, Takes me back. We’ll meet them here. Do as much damage as you can. We were about twenty feet from the path. They would see three gringos, one tanned and hard looking, two pale. They would tell from our eyes who was going to give them the most trouble. We wouldn’t last long. We waited. Footsteps, first contact. My heart jolted. The bushes rustled, brown hands pushed the branches aside. A little man walked into the clearing, blinking. Then another, and another. They were about five feet tall, tubby, dressed in jeans, no shirts. They were carrying packages slung beneath a pole. Broad grins revealed bright teeth against their copper skin. Their heads were squat and Asiatic. Indians. I exhaled in relief. Buenas tardes, said the leader. Buenas tardes, we replied. They marched through the clearing back into the jungle. Behind us, as they receded into the undergrowth, we could hear, Hermaaaana, hermaniiita. Puuuto griiingo. Gringo cabroooooon. Exhausted, Gaz sank down onto the turf. I never ever want to experience that again, he said. What the fuck was that all about? I shouted, Fucking crazy bastards. The American was grinning. He had tossed aside the club. Just trying to spook us, he drawled, They knew what we were doing out here. Must’ve seen us leaving the town. They wanted to fuck our minds. They know what to do. Centuries of experience. Real experts. We’d better get going. We don’t want to take any chances. There may be others. And it’s going to get dark soon. Remember the chupacabras.

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?

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

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.

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.

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.

    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.

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!!!

    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.

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, WrBrian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies)     Brian B. Braddock, WrI 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.

    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.

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 © 1993 through 2006 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 Copyright © 1993 through 2006 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.