Jesoo has finally arrived

Jesoo has finally arrived
the 2nd time around/ he’s
lying in pieces in Kundahar after

stepping on an IED &
being blown to high Heaven where
his Dad lies drunk wondering

what went wrong/ the
Romans make another cross but
don’t know what pieces to

crucify/ they
decide on a chunk of heart that
hasn’t stopped beating &

of course his balls, but
his penis still hangs from a
tree being eaten by a squirrel who

would have preferred the nuts/ the
criminals crucified at each side of
him just can’t believe what’s

going on between them, &
they can’t stop laughing/ if
this is the great Christian finale, it’s

a bloody joke/ humanity
has a sense of humor or
else it’s nonsense (probably

a little of both) a
priest arrives to give the pieces their
last rites, but

the criminal laughter is contagious/ the
priest scrapes a child’s shit off his dick &
starts to giggle as

his dick starts to dance & wiggle/ he
ejaculates on Jesoo’s heart which
makes the criminals smart &

convert to Islam to
SAVE THEIR
SOULS ...

!

destruction

My last three poems have been destroyed/ I
am about to throw my Toshiba through
the window/ which

                    I do San Anselmo police
throw me into the dugeon/ they
almost chain me to the wall with St Francis, but

they’ve done this to me before, so
instead they crucify me upside down/ my
Toshiba approves/ so

does my daughter who
agreed yesterday on Thanksgiving that
                    the best way to show me

thanks was to take me aside &
            tell me that I’m an asshole who
should have my lips nailed .

to the cross with the rest of me/ but
the rusty nails get too painful even
with a Presbytertian minister daughter who

keeps replacing them with bigger &
bigger spikes/ so now I’m in the
Coffee Roaster’s coffeehouse in

San Anselmo trying to dig them
out between swallows/ my daughter has
asked me to send her no more

poems because they offend her/ the
Coffee Roasters have yet to do that, but
in due respect to my daughter, they

do crucify me uptime down, & as my
entrails course out of every orifice, the
little Christian children eat them &

feed them to the mangy dog with
his big cross around his neck &
the blood of Christ dripping from

his teeth/ ironically they call him
Judas, & he keeps hanging in there/ so
much fro the fury of the Lawd Jesoo ...

Inside the Mirror

Looking
inside the mirror,
sucked into a black hole of despair;
Hell
eats my wounded soul,
and
the raw truth of evil
terrorizes
my psyche,
a barren wasteland,
nothingness,
a lonely, empty place
devoid of hope
descending
into
an infinite labyrinth,
a whirling, swirling,
endless darkness
ripping the remnants of my soul apart.

BIO

    Dr. Mel Waldman is a licensed New York State psychologist and a candidate in Psychoanalysis at the Center for Modern Psychoanalytic Studies (CMPS). He is also a poet, writer, artist, and singer/songwriter. After 9/11, he wrote 4 songs, including “Our Song,” which addresses the tragedy. His stories have appeared in numerous literary reviews and commercial magazines including HAPPY, SWEET ANNIE PRESS, CHILDREN, CHURCHES AND DADDIES and DOWN IN THE DIRT (SCARS PUBLICATIONS), NEW THOUGHT JOURNAL, THE BROOKLYN LITERARY REVIEW, HARDBOILED, HARDBOILED DETECTIVE, DETECTIVE STORY MAGAZINE, ESPIONAGE, and THE SAINT. He is a past winner of the literary GRADIVA AWARD in Psychoanalysis and was nominated for a PUSHCART PRIZE in literature. Periodically, he has given poetry and prose readings and has appeared on national T.V. and cable T.V. He is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Private Eye Writers of America, American Mensa, Ltd., and the American Psychological Association. He is currently working on a mystery novel inspired by Freud’s case studies. Who Killed the Heartbreak Kid?, a mystery novel, was published by iUniverse in February 2006. It can be purchased at www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/, www.bn.com, at /www.amazon.com, and other online bookstores or through local bookstores. Recently, some of his poems have appeared online in THE JERUSALEM POST. Dark Soul of the Millennium, a collection of plays and poetry, was published by World Audience, Inc. in January 2007. It can be purchased at www.worldaudience.org, www.bn.com, at /www.amazon.com, and other online bookstores or through local bookstores. A 7-volume short story collection was published by World Audience, Inc. in June 2007 and can also be purchased online at the above-mentioned sites.

Look, Man—

I should have told you that your sister and I stripped
together when we were kids, in the white shed behind your house,
next to the infectious alley that smelled like blood and chalk,
where we kept the burnt mattresses that we dragged
from the curb next door and hauled upstairs to rest
with dead robins and roaches, broken bottles of Mad Dog
that we liberated from Krogers and crooked Parliament filters
that your uncle supplied on demand and with pleasure.

We stood in front of the window at the apex
that you and I used to throw rocks from at passing cars,
or shout foreign profanities at the kids
whose parents were married and had better jobs
                        —We didn’t lay.
We leaned against the wall, naked and splintered,
tall like the trees you and I would climb
so high until the air seemed so thin we’d swear
we could float past the horizon, into a world
of dragons chased by narcotic, rambling rats,
something imaginary, silent, intangible,
an extraordinary place more sacred than our own
        —we both got there, remember? No?

Ten years later, she and I talked
in a chance encounter at your uncle’s old haunt.
We didn’t mention the way we learned
words like soft, hard, wet;
or how we discovered that people taste like salt
and smell faint like milk and lemonade.

Instead we discussed how you shot yourself
in the face, the way we both imagined you would:
smirking, your boy-blond hair dyed
black and braided tight, the thick strands bound
in colorful elastic bands, clutching
the gun in your hands and a letter
addressed to your family and friends
between shattered teeth;

back against the wall,
waiting, one eye crusted,
one opened eternal, observing
the ricochet and reverberation.

We used to watch you
from the teacher’s lounge

Our Valedictorian, class of 1972, straight A’s, 1500 SAT’s
accepted by three Ivy League Schools (or was it four,)
and there you were in the parking lot with the tough boys
from bad homes, rubbing against their low slung jeans
while they squinted into smoke, there you were in your
own dirty jeans, hair hanging limp-loose, plastered up against
a bad boy from a tough home on the seat of a ‘60 Chevy,
there you were dark winter 4 o’clocks where the beer was hid
and the dope passed hand to hands, there you were, 7 am
stepping from a truck in the clothes you wore the day
before. We were making bets on you. Even money
you’d make it through ‘til June. Even money you’d
graduate at all.

The Boring Meeting.

I sipped on my strong red wine
during the amazingly boring meeting.
Folded my legs, lent back and
I took an unshelled prawn from
the many large plates on the table.
They’d been fried in olive oil,
garlic and fresh basil - alive.

Put the prawn in my mouth,
whole and listened to the crunching
inside my head. Tasted the flesh.
Lit up a cigarette as my
seniors and juniors around me
tried to put a dollar sign on
the price of human life. As a

big business, we were trying to make
the large sum as small as possible.
Picked pieces of shell from my teeth
and sipped on my strong red wine.

My Hologram Life

Let me touch you with my
inclement fingers.

Let me fracture you with
a moment of lucidity –
to shatter your delusions.

Let me tack you onto the wall
to live amongst frayed photographs
and postcards from
my hologram life –

Let me take you
down.

Kyrsten Bean Bio

    A poet, musician and writer, Kyrsten had been stacking piles of poetry in her living spaces for 29 years. At some point she decided that her words were lonely – they were suffocating stacked three feet high in old notebooks. She is on a crusade to find a home for her homeless compositions of words, and spends all of her free time searching for havens. She lingers outside the fringe, trying at times to get a real job, only to throw in the towel again and go back to creating.

Still Life with Small Talk

When I say goodbye to Miss Hooker at
the end of Sunday School I want to say
a lot more but I don’t know if words will work
for me or against me but that’s what life
is, says Father—knowing when to clam up
and knowing when to speak and what about
and never too much. She’s my teacher and
knows more about God than our preacher does
or at least I learn more from her, partly
because she doesn’t scream or roll her eyes
or get down on her knees or even cry
or if she does any or all these things
she keeps them to herself. That’s class. Mother

doesn’t like her skirts—they’re too short, she says,
and She shouldn’t wear those open-toed shoes
to church service. But Father disagrees
and gets away with it and always smiles.
I guess he gets away with it. Mother frowns
and says, Let’s change the subject, and I feel
the friction there at the dinner table
so I change it back to what it should be,
which is food, and say, Please pass the biscuits.
Or cornbread. Whatever the case may be.
They sit across from each other and I’m

in the middle—I mean I’m in between them
on the east side to their north and south, with
no one across from me to talk to but
the old painting of bread and cheese and fruit.
A still life, it’s called, because it doesn’t
move, I guess. I always forget to ask.
But if I had Miss Hooker over there

I’d talk about the weather, at first, and
then ask about her family, and if
she’s happy with that two-door coupe she drives,
and whether she likes dogs better than cats.
It’s called small talk and leads to bigger things.
That’s how Mother said she and Father met,
one standing behind the other, waiting
in line to see a movie. Father asked
her where she had been all his life, he says,
but Mother said he asked her for a match.
And I got one, Father laughs. Mother frowns.

One day I’ll be old enough to court her,
Miss Hooker, and take her out to dinner
and have her there across me, all alone
but for the other diners, who won’t
seem there at all even though they are. Life
—it’s pretty strange but it’s all I’ve known. I
love you, ma’am, I’ll say over dessert. That
way I save the best for last and have time

enough to sweet-talk her through the salad
and soup and bread, and steak, or maybe chops.
Sure, you’re fifteen years older than I am
but I don’t care if you don’t. I’ll quit school
and get a job—only say you’ll be mine.
Could be she’ll turn me down—I’ll try again.
As long as we go steady then there’s hope.

On Saturday nights when I say my prayers
I say one more for Miss Hooker and me,
that God will make me older really fast
and take away from her a year for each
year that I get older, until we meet
at the same age and I ask her for her
hand and she gives it. I slip a ring on
a certain finger and she’s mine for keeps.
Then she tells me just how to make babies

and we do and have about seventeen.
We visit Mother and Father, and hers,
once a week and sit at a long table
and eat and talk. I drive my family home
in a school bus and we put them to bed
and stay up late to watch TV until
Miss Hooker (by then I’ll know her first name)
says, Honey, let’s go to bed now, and we
do, and maybe make more babies, or talk
the way I hear my parents do when they should be
asleep, laughing and moaning, then snoring.

Allegory for America

The instances of thousands of birds falling from the sky
have been ascribed to a wide variety of causes,
                                                                            all except
that it’s impossible to get anywhere with two right wings

Poem From The Hartford Epic (Culture)

Several
anorexic
haute-couture
dressed
mannequins
surrounding
a chalk
outline
of an unknown
but murdered
homo sapiens

What you don’t
eat here
you can take home
in a body bag

Will someone please
slightly shift
the well dressed
dummies

Next topic
of conversation:
Art & Literature

My civilization
really knows
how to throw
a great cocktail
party

Books and Blood and a Biker...

The highway patrolman directs post fatality traffic
The trucker is torn up over the needless accident
The Harley headwrap doo rag holds brain bits
like ballistic gelatin-and on into Murfreesboro
they’re investigating an Islam mosque arson fire:
American financial crimes are common as female
genital mutilation in the middle east and all that
Florida preacher can find to do is burn the Koran
while the bible sits by waiting to be interpreted
honorably out of the dark digital ages around us

Bloodthirsty

The citizens of New York
are pushing
to keep
Mixed Martial Arts
banned
in the state

it is too violent
they say
and violence
breeds violence

half-way across the country
in Illinois
former Governor George Ryan
sits in jail
while his wife
is near her expiration date

do not let him out
the citizens say
he needs to learn
his lesson
and be an example
for other politicians

politicians
if you have not noticed
are great
at learning from example
which is why
no matter how many are imprisoned
(and we always jump at the chance
to imprison them)
corruption continues

so while Mixed Martial Arts
is a sport
too brutal
for society
we watch on
as a man sits in jail

his only remaining
reason for living
on her deathbed

and we smile

So Long

At the bittersweet celebration
you try to decipher semi-disjointed phrases of encouragement from face after face
after face
but your eyes see only me
staring at you, gallantly
I live for the moment with ease because my sadness is masked
by the clamorous echoes of laughter and the familiar euphoric feeling that directly precedes
absolute obliteration

You refuse to say goodbye
Instead, you take my hand and guide me into the proverbial semi-closed position
for one final waltz around the center of the room
Naturally, I follow your lead
because swimming against the current is how I build my strength
Still, my eyes burn
All the more after I walk away

End Notes

I am plum wore out of philosophic jargon,
and I can’t come up with any sex.

Freedom

Today I went—
To my bishop—
And asked him—if I—
Could go on a mission for God—and the Church—
He said yea, and he said nay
You’re not ready
You’re not ready
I asked why am I not ready—
Why am I not ready—
You must quit your writing for they are satanic
You must quit wearing black for it is satanic
Rock and roll is so fucking satanic
You must read all of the Mormon scriptures
I know I am ready
I know I am ready
I said fuck it I am going to join the navy
What do I have to show for it?
What do I have to show for it?
Absolutely nothing but knowing how to submit to authority
Submitting to authority
And biting my tongue everyday
Biting my tongue
Absolutely nothing but knowing how to submit to authority
Submitting to authority
And biting my tongue everyday
Biting my tongue
I have been just about every where
You name it and I have been there—
You name it and I have been there—
Bishop, oh bishop
Why can you see how I see?
Why can you see how I see?
Fuck you and your fucking ways
Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t do?
Can’t you see that there is no god?
Can’t you see that there is no sin?
Can’t you see that there is no good or evil?
You worship a god that was created by man.
Man created god to stupefy and corrupt the eyes of men.
Not allowing them to see the world as it truly is.
Go ahead and spread your cultic, blindsided ways
Seeing as you want them to see.
I am here to spread—knowledge among these blindsided people
That are diseased by your beliefs and ways of ignorance.
So just open up your eyes and see as you have never seen before
See as humans were meant to see not through ignorance of others binding you with their answers.
I am no longer bound by religion, rules, nor regulations.

HA! HA! HA!

It seems to me I am mediocre,
I am the ruler of all mediocrity.
It seems to me I am a joke
that yields no serious punch line.
I must be wearing blinders
for I cannot see the obvious.
I am no writer,
I am a joke!
A clown!
Surely I am a fool!
For I cannot rhyme two words;
this poem proves it.
Why do I fool myself so,
with a talent of which none I possess?
I can put pen to paper and fool no one but myself.
I rant and rave about the poet I will someday be.
I am not one now, how will I be one later?
My desire is greater than any ability possessed.
It seems to me I am a minion,
an inferior crony to the craft.
God has vent his humor on me.
He has given me no writing talent,
only talent to recognize it.
It seems to me I will never write great literature,
only read it.
It seems to me I will never write gifted poetry,
only read it.
And it seems to me I am a greater fool to read it,
if I am never to write it.

Birds on a Wire

Let’s be real for a moment,
we only get it half the time, if we’re lucky. Let’s be
the stubborn coat of textured ice on the car window,
warmed by vents. This might be all we are
capable of doing, which is exactly what abstracts
our view. There is something wrong
with the treble. The radio is trouble, I could see it
if these damned headlamps weren’t broken.
If the ice didn’t guide me toward the hydrant.
The ashtray smells like stale ash, as if it were
becoming dirt. I think the idea behind it all
is the romantic portrayal of one’s own personality–
is that right? I’ve been told that
we are all, on a genetic level, 99.9% similar,
which leaves very little room to be ourselves.
These nights at the typewriter, these empty
bottles of wine, all the blue of the moon
that artists have painted and told of so many times
before, with purple tongues and teeth. Where, in this
thin sliver, will I lie? In the unmade bed?
On the flattened cushions of the couch? Where,
among the infinite consideration of stars, do I throw in?
And if we are only right half the time, I suppose
it is in the other half where we are obliged to lie.
Let’s be real, we all see the crows
perched incredulously on the wire, in the cold.
We drink the song of their reductionist
self-pity, how they wait to pick our bones
as line after line of traffic slows to a stop.
Their placement like notes on a scale.
The stoic pole, their clef.

Jim Davis, Jr. Bio
(20110303)

    Jim Davis is a graduate of Knox College and now lives, writes and paints in Chicago. Jim edits the North Chicago Review, and will be appearing as the feature artist for the upcoming issue of Palooka Magazine. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Poetry Quarterly, The Ante Review, Chiron Review, The Café Review, Red River Review, Midwest Literary Magazine, and Blue Mesa Review, among others.

Letter to a Senator

Despite being vilified, recent Supreme Court rulings
barely scratch the surface
for while affirming corporations as persons
and campaign contributions as protected speech
they fail to fully incorporate the relationship
between money and personhood in America
whose poor, working, and middle classes
scarcely count as citizens
while those most fiscally endowed
command more representation than entire cities.
Accordingly, I ask that Congress legislate the following:
“Instead of ‘one person, one vote’
citizens will be treated as stockholders
with each individual’s share of America
commensurate with their relative wealth;
consequently, as at any stockholders meeting,
each person (including ‘American’ corporations)
will have the number of votes
corresponding to their net worth”
(which in today’s America is their actual worth.)
I’m confident that this voting reform bill
is an equitable reflection of American democracy
which will obviate bribing and lobbying elected officials
while enabling our legislators to be more candidly obedient
to their true constituency.

                                                Respectfully yours,
                                                (Corporations are people too!)

                                                I.B. Rad

Jim Davis, Jr. Bio
(20110303)

    Jim Davis is a graduate of Knox College and now lives, writes and paints in Chicago. Jim edits the North Chicago Review, and will be appearing as the feature artist for the upcoming issue of Palooka Magazine. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Poetry Quarterly, The Ante Review, Chiron Review, The Café Review, Red River Review, Midwest Literary Magazine, and Blue Mesa Review, among others.

Harms Woods

She must have made a perfect dead girl, hanging
From a rope, swinging slightly, maybe, by a light breeze,
From a tall tree, maybe spruce, maybe, but more likely elm.
The North Shore is like that, lots of elms, and lots of lovely girls,
Long hair, good teeth, clear skin, money, popular,
Like the girl at the end of that rope.

She was “depressed” the front page read,
On her way to an ivy league school, the paper pointed out.
Good grades, a future, her parents were important,
Power and influence.
She did it by herself,
Drove a good car to the forest preserve parking lot.
Walked out and into the woods.
She chose a good rope, and a good tree, in a good hour,
She was a good student.
“Everyone” was in “shock”, the paper went on

I remember hearing that friends of hers
Went to that forest preserve searching,
Trying to figure out where it happened.
There were lots of trees to choose from.

The Nameless

When I write
I summon them
those personified
emotions
symbols
gods
let them be called
the nameless
they are not like words
they are more than words
they are power
they are effect
they are feeling
and we all know
at least some of them
we become some of them
but they are not like us
they are not equals
they have different strategies
these nameless
endless
eternals
they are always at war with one another
vying for sway over our lives
to rule us
these nameless
they never decay
they are not a part of nature
they are creations
and they depend upon us
to feed
to consume our energy
and without us
they are nothing
some are good masters
some are good servants
but we are better than them
if we can use them
for our own ends
and not become their puppets
then we can do what we must
use them
for glory
use them
for yourself
use them
the nameless.
Peace
Love
Desire
Lust
Destruction
Sorrow
Victory
Beauty
Fortitude
Prosperity
Despair
Luck
Wrath
Fortune
Fame
Gluttony
Justice
Fury
Grace
Bliss
Jealousy
Dream
Joy
Fate
Laughter
Vengeance
Chance
Delirium
Beauty
Truth
Despair
Love
Life
Death
Hope.

Daisy

Simple astrum flowing
In astringent juices,
Composed in white ray
And yellow disc florets;
Your life is short, like a
Dog I once had, but I
Can’t remember much
About its life except that it
Died of diabetes and old age.

It Comes With the Night

Music seeps through the walls Of this small apartment,
Headboard smacking in four-four from the unit
That neighbors the dinner table.
Doing wash, never segregating
The whites and the coloreds,
Believing in a community
Free from the shackles of aesthetics.
They scream out, fists in the air,
And march from hamper to washer,
Washer to dryer, dryer to floor.
Thoughts fire like careless bullets in the night –
Escaping wisdom,
Thinning hair,
Joblessness,
Existentialism,
War and Peace,
Utopianisms.
How these notes create the soundtrack
To whatever comes with the night.

Spring And Not One Singing Bird
Sestina Variation

Spring and not one singing bird—
reader, the future is a naked branch.
How can I help you?
The receiver of this poem will hear nothing,
just a certain calmness, like after a suicide,
but before the corpse has been cut down.

Before the corpse has been cut down—
spring and not one bird.
The air is calm after a suicide.
Reader, the future is a naked branch.
You will hear nothing.
How can I help you?

I don’t think I can help you.
Before the corpse has been cut down,
you will hear nothing. Nothing,
not even one singing bird.
Reader, the future is a naked branch,
everything will be calm, like after a suicide.

Everything will be calm, like after a suicide.
I doubt that I will ever be able to help you
because the future is a naked branch
and the corpse has not been cut down.
It is spring and not one bird.
You will hear nothing.

You will hear nothing,
just a certain calmness, like after a suicide.
You won’t see one bird.
I will not be able to help you.
The corpse has not been cut down.
The future is a naked branch.

No future—just a naked branch.
The receiver of this poem will hear nothing
before the corpse has been cut down—
just a certain calmness like after a suicide.
I will never be able to help you.
It is spring. There isn’t one singing bird.

No one can help you. The corpse hasn’t been cut down.
It is spring and not one bird, just silence like after a suicide.
The future is a naked branch. You will hear nothing.

Ex-Soldier and Morning Paper

First thing each morning,
he checked the times
for sunrise, sunset.
They’d have it wrong again.
Did only he know
the days were growing shorter
by the years not just the months.
Soon enough there’d be no light,
just dark.
But it was just like a newspaper
to go on believing different.
For didn’t they state something like,
“The War Is Over.”
Just like those wretched lying bylines.
A story goes on too long
and circulation suffers.
And he could tell these
clueless editors a thing or two
about circulation.
No matter where his legs
camp out, his blood has
a hard time finding them.
And what’s with the
foolhardy obituaries...
as if people die of somehow
being in the right place
at the right time
when bad hearts call, or car crashes,
or cancer.
He knows obituaries
pop on all sides of a man
like fire-crackers.
Army buddies, there one minute,
gone the next.
And there’s that sun through
the kitchen window,
thinking it’s in charge,
when it’s still officers
pull the switch, wind up the fervor.
That sun will learn
when it’s dark by four o’clock.
That’s general four o’clock
to you, sunshine.

Devil’s Diary Entry

Day whatever:
                        raised hell.

Dentist in Iraq

I’m a dentist

still in the service

so they shipped me to Iraq

all I do now
is clean up soldiers split open

I see all the blood
I miss my office

I miss
so much

see http://twitter.com/janetkuypers
for this two-tweet poem, as well as
other twitter-length poems

Elephants Carry the World

elephants carry the world
in a line
in a chain
they walk
hold up the earth

and i remember
sitting in the passenger seat
with you driving down the road
and two elephants
started walking down the street
in front of us

slow down,
get out of the way,
i thought

and as you started to pull over
i looked at you in a panic
and i said
“i don’t have my camera with me”

you pulled over,
and the two elephants
(one much larger than the other)
started walking across the street
and stopped right on the sidewalk
not three feet in front of us

we both just sat there
in shock and awe
until i watched
a man from a building across the street
come running toward us,
slowing down and stopping at a ledge
between us and the elephants

he placed some hard wrapped candies
on the ledge
and said to the elephants
“i thought you might like these”
and then slowly backed away

all I could think was
“how are they supposed to open candies
wrapped in plastic like this?
they don’t have opposable thumbs”

when you heard my thoughts
you said,
“elephants are highly intelligent creatures”

and i thought,
they carry the world, you know
as i then looked over
and saw these two elephants
get on large bicycles
and start to ride away

End of an Empire

i’ve heard political pundits
on both sides
say
we’re becoming a third world country

our products are made in third world countries
all of or technology is asian
we’ve stopped manufacturing anything
unemployment’s sky-high
we owe china billions

maybe this really is
the end of an empire,
they say

now, the only empire
i can remember from history
is the Roman Empire
where leaders had so much power

and like america, sodomy was illegal
unless it was with a non-roman or a slave

and in america, i think the seventh state
allowed gay marriages the other day,
and yesterday the president said
they will not differentiate marriage now
as only between a man and a woman

a comedic political pundit just asked
if that meant beastiality was now legal
according to the federal government

and i’m sure that it’s not
but lines are being moved
and lines are being crossed

and how closely did the life of Caligula
coincide with the end of the roman republic,
i wondered

    Janet Kuypers has a Communications degree in News/Editorial Journalism (starting in computer science engineering studies) from the UIUC. She had the equivalent of a minor in photography and specialized in creative writing. A portrait photographer for years in the early 1990s, she was also an acquaintance rape workshop facilitator, and she started her publishing career as an editor of two literary magazines. Later she was an art director, webmaster and photographer for a few magazines for a publishing company in Chicago, and this Journalism major was even the final featured poetry performer of 15 poets with a 10 minute feature at the 2006 Society of Professional Journalism Expo’s Chicago Poetry Showcase. This certified minister was even the officiant of a wedding in 2006.
    She sang with acoustic bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase”, “Weeds and Flowers” and “the Second Axing”, and does music sampling. Kuypers is published in books, magazines and on the internet around 9,300 times for writing, and over 17,800 times for art work in her professional career, and has been profiled in such magazines as Nation and Discover U, won the award for a Poetry Ambassador and was nominated as Poet of the Year for 2006 by the International Society of Poets. She has also been highlighted on radio stations, including WEFT (90.1FM), WLUW (88.7FM), WSUM (91.7FM), WZRD (88.3FM), WLS (8900AM), the internet radio stations ArtistFirst dot com, chicagopoetry.com’s Poetry World Radio and Scars Internet Radio (SIR), and was even shortly on Q101 FM radio. She has also appeared on television for poetry in Nashville (in 1997), Chicago (in 1997), and northern Illinois (in a few appearances on the show for the Lake County Poets Society in 2006). Kuypers was also interviewed on her art work on Urbana’s WCIA channel 3 10 o’clock news.
    She turned her writing into performance art on her own and with musical groups like Pointless Orchestra, 5D/5D, The DMJ Art Connection, Order From Chaos, Peter Bartels, Jake and Haystack, the Bastard Trio, and the JoAnne Pow!ers Trio, and starting in 2005 Kuypers ran a monthly iPodCast of her work, as well mixed JK Radio — an Internet radio station — into Scars Internet Radio (both radio stations on the Internet air 2005-2009). She even managed the Chaotic Radio show (an hour long Internet radio show 1.5 years, 2006-2007) through BZoO.org and chaoticarts.org. She has performed spoken word and music across the country - in the spring of 1998 she embarked on her first national poetry tour, with featured performances, among other venues, at the Albuquerque Spoken Word Festival during the National Poetry Slam; her bands have had concerts in Chicago and in Alaska; in 2003 she hosted and performed at a weekly poetry and music open mike (called Sing Your Life), and from 2002 through 2005 was a featured performance artist, doing quarterly performance art shows with readings, music and images.
    Since 2010 Kuypers also hosts the weekly Chicago poetry open mic at the Café, while also broadcasting the Cafés weekly feature podcasts (and where she sometimes also performs impromptu mini-features of poetry or short stories or songs, in addition to other shows she performs live in the Chicago area).
    In addition to being published with Bernadette Miller in the short story collection book Domestic Blisters, as well as in a book of poetry turned to prose with Eric Bonholtzer in the book Duality, Kuypers has had many books of her own published: Hope Chest in the Attic, The Window, Close Cover Before Striking, (woman.) (spiral bound), Autumn Reason (novel in letter form), the Average Guy’s Guide (to Feminism), Contents Under Pressure, etc., and eventually The Key To Believing (2002 650 page novel), Changing Gears (travel journals around the United States), The Other Side (European travel book), The Boss Lady’s Editorials, The Boss Lady’s Editorials (2005 Expanded Edition), Seeing Things Differently, Change/Rearrange, Death Comes in Threes, Moving Performances, Six Eleven, Live at Cafe Aloha, Dreams, Rough Mixes, The Entropy Project, The Other Side (2006 edition), Stop., Sing Your Life, the hardcover art book (with an editorial) in cc&d v165.25, the Kuypers edition of Writings to Honour & Cherish, The Kuypers Edition: Blister and Burn, S&M, cc&d v170.5, cc&d v171.5: Living in Chaos, Tick Tock, cc&d v1273.22: Silent Screams, Taking It All In, It All Comes Down, Rising to the Surface, Galapagos, Chapter 38 (v1 and volume 1), Chapter 38 (v2 and Volume 2), Chapter 38 v3, Finally: Literature for the Snotty and Elite (Volume 1, Volume 2 and part 1 of a 3 part set), A Wake-Up Call From Tradition (part 2 of a 3 part set), (recovery), Dark Matter: the mind of Janet Kuypers , Evolution, Adolph Hitler, O .J. Simpson and U.S. Politics, the one thing the government still has no control over, (tweet), Get Your Buzz On, Janet & Jean Together, po•em, Taking Poetry to the Streets, the Cana-Dixie Chi-town Union, the Written Word, Dual, Prepare Her for This, uncorrect, Living in a Big World (color interior book with art and with “Seeing a Psychiatrist”), Pulled the Trigger (part 3 of a 3 part set), Venture to the Unknown (select writings with extensive color NASA/Huubble Space Telescope images), Janet Kuypers: Enriched, She’s an Open Book, “40”, Sexism and Other Stories, and the Stories of Women. Three collection books were also published of her work in 2004, Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art).

Flash fiction.

    Once upon a time in Fredonia there was a little baby boy named Shlomo. This boy was cute as a Prince and yet he did not move at all by himself. He didn’t crawl, hop on his butt, or walk alone. He was very serious looking rarely smiling. His parents thought Shlomo was perfect in every way. His doctor thought that development was slow. But little Slomo had a secret! He could fly but only when no one was watching him.

    Shlomo would first rise up over his little bed. Then he would fly over to the bathroom and look in the mirror. And he touched the ceiling with his tiny fingers and laughed. “Ha ha ha,” said Shlomo.

the wastrel

    plans? none. hopes? well, you’d like to say none. fears? working on ‘em. but not many. loves? i’ve traveled that haunted road with every sky and no matter how slow i walk i always end in a sweat. talk about rides, sometimes i look at the trees and a horse in the field and get thinking that would be easier . . . then i remember i’m a walker. on the road, imperative is burning high, on the return jaunt i’m wiping my eyes with the rag of inevitability. i know my hopes sink – i don’t know where. i’m moving with simplicity, a faith in an origin i’ve seen before. i stop at cemeteries, where i meet people who did their best. i don’t want to join them, but wonder how i got here. strangers can stop me, but i’m getting over shock and effort . . i watch the path. i am not beat. i am wasted.

Lost & Found

    Padded black leather studded with gold pins covered the front door. She went in because of the hour she’d spent driving there, because she’d found a parking space, and because nothing had scared her too badly between the car and the door. There was no reason to turn around.
    A tall wooden podium, sinuous Art Nouveau vines carved down each leg, was planted on the marble tile floor in the foyer. Behind it stood a young girl wearing only a red lace bikini and knee-high boots. Seeing her made Lisbeth hunch deeper into her heavy coat.
    As she paid the $40 cover, Lisbeth could feel the bikini girl trying to add her up. Shoulder length straight hair, glossy leather Coach purse, double breasted forest green wool coat, black pumps with a delicate kitten heel; Lisbeth knew she didn’t fit. She squared her shoulders and lifted her head and gave the girl a polite smile, then turned and gave a little hop when she saw a large black man sitting on a stool in the corner, his arms crossed over his chest and with his fists tucked in to make his biceps bulge. She managed to meet his grin with an echo of the smile she’d given the girl as she went through the arched doorway into the club.
    She grabbed the first chair she saw. The room was elegant, the wood tables with inlaid Beidermier-style scrollwork, the chairs and banquets upholstered in dark blue. It smelled like a bar though, the boggy mix of old beer and cigarettes that Lisbeth knew would stay in her hair and clothing.
    The room was dominated by the stage. It formed a cross, with the north end hidden behind dark velvet curtains, the east, south and west ends thrusting out into the tabled and pinned in place by brass poles. There were three women dancing to a generic thumping bass line, one on each pole. The women were dressed solely in thongs and very high heels.

    Ten years before, after high school graduation, Kara had moved to the city to be a dancer while Lisbeth had gone to Stanford. They kept in touch at first, but time and circumstance moved them away from each other. Now Kara was working a pole in a strip club. Lisbeth watched, ignoring her nudity because other Karas were layered over the one in front of her. She saw Kara at the lake in her new black swimsuit, giggling because Teddy Danvers was there, Kara with one leg on the barr, stretching sideways, torn knit leg warmers scrunched down over the laces of her toe shoes, Kara shifting into fourth gear and letting the Mustang run up the highway to a party in the hills. The woman grabbed the pole and bent from the waist, arching her back and leaning out over the cluster of customers who circled her end of the stage, but Lisbeth only saw the other Kara, the one she used to know, her best friend.
    At some cue Lisbeth didn’t see, the three women stopped dancing and moved to the center of the stage, their high heels giving them the rolling strut of catwalk models. Kara was there first, and she grabbed the next dancer, kissing her. The third woman rubbed up against the other two, then all three strode behind the red curtain, holding hands as they went.
    Three other dancers came out to take their places. The customers, almost all men, paid close attention for a moment, then went back to their mix of ogling and arguing and drinking. No one noticed Lisbeth. No waitress came to take her order. The stereo pumped along, playing faceless electronic dance music that had been recorded by uncredited musicians at some anonymous studio. Lisbeth sat alone.
    Lisbeth had lost Kara after high school. Her life at Stanford was overwhelming, then law school in LA had taken her further from home. She’d always missed Kara, though, because Kara laughed. When Lisbeth took her young life too seriously, Kara poked her, grinned, and showed her the fun part.
    In the end Lisbeth married a guy from their rival high school who convinced her they should move back home. She’d hoped to find Kara when they got there, but Kara’s father was dead, her mother wasn’t living in their big old house, and her little brother might have moved to Las Vegas. None of their old friends from school knew what had happened to Kara.

    Without a plan, Lisbeth sat clutching her purse, feeling invisible. A nasty-faced waitress leaned against the bar and Lisbeth wanted to ask her how to get backstage, but she’d run out of nerve. She’d feel too naked walking across the room. While Lisbeth was still assessing her options, Kara came out from behind the curtain.
    Kara waved at one customer and stopped to chat with another. She’d put on a little white tank top that was so tight it was nearly sheer. She stopped at the table of customers closest to where Lisbeth was sitting. The men laughed, one punched the other in the shoulder, the third waved some bills. Kara started to dance.

    Kara finished the dance, rubbed the thinning hair on the customer’s head, and walked towards Lisbeth. The motion of her swinging stride caught Lisbeth’s eye, turning her away from the stage. She watched her friend approach.
    “If that’s what you wear for a night on the town, you must look like a grandmother when you go to work,” Kara said. She dropped into the chair nearest Lisbeth and leaned forward, resting her arms on the table between them. Lisbeth could only see the half-moon curves at the top of her breasts, which helped her focus on Kara’s eyes.
    “Yeah, well, it’s not easy looking this respectable.”
    “I wouldn’t know,” Kara laughed.
    “Clearly.” They both laughed, then paused and looked at each other, uncertain. Lisbeth looked away first.
    “You look good, Lizzie,” Kara said. For a moment her eyes had a hungry look, though it was hard to see because the stark black eyeliner gave her a Cleopatra stare.
    “You look good, too,” Lisbeth responded, mostly because it was the polite thing to say.
    “You’re wearing a ring,” Kara pointed to Lisbeth’s left hand.
    “I got married a couple years ago. I sent you an invitation, to your Mom’s house.” Lisbeth fiddled with her purse, trying not to notice the bruise on Kara’s forearm, the scars and scabs that ran up the inside of her arms.
    “Yeah, I got it late or something.”
    “Oh.”
    “I was, um, pregnant, and not really into going places, you know.”
    “You have a baby? How old? That’s so cool. I’m pregnant, too.” Lisbeth smiled, relieved to find something in common.
    “She’s two. Jazzmyne. She lives with my Mom. That’s why I’ve been working here. It’s close, so I can see her. Some times.”
    “With these hours, it would be hard to manage a kid.”
    “Mom’s more stable than me right now. I’ve always got stuff, you know. Photo shoots and auditions, work every night. It’s good money, though.”
    “Of course. We should have lunch some time, when you’re not too busy.”
    Kara nodded. “Sure. Lunch sometime.”
    “Here’s my card. My cell phone number’s on the back.” Lisbeth handed Kara the crisp white rectangle. Kara took it, glanced back over at the bartender. He waved at her.
    “I need to go,” she said, sliding up out of the chair.
    “Call me, ok, if there’s anything I can do for you, if there’s anything you need.”
    “How ‘bout a $20 so I can get a hit later.” Her voice was bitter.
    “A what?”
    “Nothing. Shit, look, it’s not much, but this is a good gig for me. The crew keeps the crowd in line and the money’s great. I’m just trying to get my shit together so I can get Jazzy back, like, keep my nose clean.”
    “Oh, sure.”
    “Yeah, whatever.” Kara looked tougher than when she first walked over.
    “I might call your Mom. I’d like to go see Jazzmyne.” Lisbeth stood and faced Kara. She hadn’t planned to say it, but in that moment it was the only thing she could say.
    Kara thought for a moment, then nodded. “Mom would love to talk to you, anyway. She’s got an apartment here in Franklin. It’s in the book. I think the phone’s still in Dad’s name, though.” She turned towards the bar. “Thanks for coming in. I’ll call you.” Kara walked off, head high, hips swinging.
    Lisbeth walked out, past the bikini girl, past the clot of men who had gathered on the street outside. She locked herself into her BMW and did her best not to stop until she got to the highway, driving through stop signs when no other cars were around. She was pretty sure Kara wouldn’t call and that made her think about choices. She felt hollow, like maybe she’d missed something, but she wasn’t sure what. Her husband’s Thelonious Monk CD was in the car stereo. The angular jazz cleared away the disco as she swung onto the freeway.

The Forgotten

    They call me Cooper, they can’t even bother to learn my real name. How sad is that? My so-called best friends don’t even know my real name. Where did “Cooper” even come from? My name is Meghan Frank, and I am the forgotten.
    Its trivial. I know. Its just with the advent of technology bringing people together only makes me feel even more left out. I flip through the online photo albums of my “friends” and not a single one includes a picture of me. Events and parties I was at have no photographic evidence that I was even there. I consider these people the heart of my social life... and yet they rarely even acknowledged that I even exist. It wasn’t always like this though. Last year I was “the girl” of the group. Before girlfriends and hook-ups that still stick around I was the original, and therefor the other girls have this distain for me. Not because I think I’m better, cause I don’t, most of these girls are so much prettier then I am, but because I’m considered “one of the guys” and a “little sister” (well, at least I used to be). Whenever I walk into the room and certain girlfriends and wannabe-hookups look at me like I have AIDs, and because the guys are my friends and the girls aren’t I feel awkward at social gatherings. My texts, messages, emails, and phone calls are all ignored and pushed to the side. I’m never told to come over and hang out, even though every time I see them they’re like “Oh! We need to chill more! How about dinner?” or some bullshit like that. I’m just the historian, its both my college major and my place in my college social life. I’m constantly making videos for them, to remind them how much fun they had in motion instead of boring old stills... and yet these videos rarely include me because I’m the one behind the camera. Still, I’m forgotten.
    I want to disappear. Not end my life. There is a difference. I want to leave for a month or two and see if anybody notices. I want to go far away and forget about Meghan Frank, the forgotten. Maybe become someone else. Become the life of the party, with a good body and good brains, everything I’m not. I escape into my books, I pretend I’m with the people in them, that they’re my friends. The same thing I’ve been doing all my life. I’ve never really had friends and it kinda sucks. I have close acquaintances, but never a true friend... or that’s at least what it feels like. My friends from high school have moved away and lost contact or because their boyfriends hate me they stopped talking to me. My college friends... well I can’t really call them friends anymore. They’re just people I hang out with. I’m never an important part of the group. I’m constantly forgotten.
    I know that when people read this they will get mad and puffy and say things such as, “I’m your friend. What are you saying? Are you not my friend?” or “I thought I was your friend.” And this, once again is complete and utter crap. Sure, when (and if) this gets published, you’ll be my friend, but other then that I’m just another person in the world. You never come to me with your problems, and when you do I want to beat the living hell out of you because of the stupidity that dribbles from your mouth. You forget me. But that’s okay, while you’re dropping out of college I’m going for my bachelors. While your struggling to find your path in life I’ve already made a mark on society that I can be proud of. While you’re forgetting me I’m making sure I will find a way into your child’s history book, making sure the world knows I will not be forgotten.

From a GO TRAIN morning,
or: Sketch of a Smoking Diva

    The letters G & O stand for Government of Ontario, and TRAIN means train. It is a mass transit system proper. I take the train into the city, Monday to Friday, to work.

    Once in a while you’ll hear a voice come over the public address system. It says, “We’d like to remind you that smoking is strictly prohibited on GO Transit property.” This includes the outdoor platforms where we wait for the train, but people who smoke tend to smoke anyway. It makes the air smell very bad, and if you are near them while they smoke it makes your clothes smell bad, too.
    There’s this one woman who smokes every morning right near where I stand waiting to board the train. She wears big oversized dark sunglasses and holds her cigarette in a dangly kind of fragile manner akin to the way a movie star would have back when movies were silent. She’s attractive at first glance, and I notice men taking notice of her, but step closer and you’ll see a thick layer of foundation covering unhealthy skin that makes it seem like she is damaged on the inside. I’ve heard that smoking causes bad skin because all that junk from the smoke exits the body through the pores. I don’t think she knows this. She smokes like a silent-movie star. The difference is in the degree of glamour. Silent movie stars were glamorous in black and white after hours spent in hair and make up, but then that was the idea: to create an illusion of unreal beauty. This woman seems to be trying too hard: like she is a silent movie star having wandered off the lot, out of place in the real world.

    One morning an older woman told the smoking diva that there is no smoking allowed on the platform and the smoking diva looked at her like she was speaking a different language. The smoking diva went on smoking.

    When the train pulls into the station the smoking diva drags on her cigarette with intense frequency. She is trying to smoke it right down to the filter before boarding, maybe to get her money’s worth, I don’t know. But as the train comes to a stop more people crowd onto the platform, bullherding their way toward the doors, and the smoking diva is smoking close to all of us. When the doors open, she elbows and weasels her way ahead of people who have been waiting on the platform before she got there so that she can get on the train first and sit where she likes. She tosses her smoke away at the last second. One day it landed in the bag of another old lady and burnt the wrapping paper around a gift she was taking to work. The old lady was perplexed but the smoking diva didn’t even look back to notice.

    The word Diva is derived from the Latin ‘divas’, meaning ‘divine’. The basic sense of the term is ‘Goddess’ or ‘fine lady’. Later, it came to be used when referring to a distinguished female singer, especially in the world of Italian opera. Nowadays it gets thrown around lightly. I use it here because it is the word the smoking diva used to describe her self one morning. She was talking to a woman her age and they must have been friends because they were making plans to go out that evening. The girl asked the smoking diva how long she needed to get ready and the smoking diva said, “Oh, at least three hours.”
    “Three hours?” the other girl repeated, concerned. “We’re only going for coffee.”
    “What can I say?” she said. “I’m a diva.” And then she took a long drag from her smoke.
    When the train came that morning the smoking diva elbowed her way past the girl she was making plans with to board first.

    I’ve thought about boarding a different car so to avoid the smoke, but then I thought: why do I have to change where I sit? I like the car where I sit. And as things have gone on I have to say I’ve achieved a clear detachment from my anger and come to be amused by the smoking diva. Sometimes I purposely sit a few seats closer to where she sits so I can observe more. She is always on the phone for the 45 minutes it takes for the train to get into the city. I’m not sure whom she is talking to but she never seems to pause to listen to them. She only fires off a seamless stream of chatter about anything concerning her. It is as though she has no interior monologue. The seats around her are empty these days because no one wants to sit by her because she speaks very loud into her phone. But I sit close so I can listen. Close, but not too close. She always seems to have a problem that needs dealing with. It seems that the world is always in disagreement with the plans she has made.

    That brings us to today, when things got strange:
    I got to the station at my usual time. The sky was overcast, and there was a very slight drizzle of rain. Walking the length of the platform to where I board I saw the smoking diva from a distance. She was more high-strung than usual and her yelling into her phone was accompanied by big sweeping gestures with her free arm. The fingers of the hand of that free arm dangling the smoke.
    But as I got closer and could hear her voice I noticed that it sounded different. There was a little more shriek to it than usual. Also different: her hair: a little less blonde than usual, with dark streaks. As I got to my regular spot I saw why those features were different: because this was a different girl.
    “She looks just like the other one,” said Lester, who is a fellow commuter, and acquaintance of mine.
    “Yes,” I said.
    “But she’s got more drama, it would seem.”
    “Rather.”
    We watched her, Lester and I. She was going on about a bill she was late paying. She couldn’t understand why the banking person she was talking to couldn’t understand that she didn’t feel like paying the bill this month.
    Then this new diva’s tirade was accompanied by the sound of the original diva’s voice, also in tirade mode. She was to our right, lighting her smoke and yelling into her phone about the drizzling rain. She wanted to know why the person she was talking to couldn’t make it stop raining. She had spent all that time doing her hair and the rain was just going to ruin it. Just ruin it.
    I looked at Les. He raised his eyebrows.
    The original diva continued her tirade about the rain as she took her spot on the platform. Now the two divas where right beside each other. Each on the phone doing tirade dances. Each smoking. Each completely unaware of the other.
    As the train’s time of arrival neared, more commuters gathered, but upon noticing the two divas they all kept their distance. Now it appeared as though there were an invisible shield around the divas, repelling the other commuters from getting close to them as they yelled and puffed smoke.
    The train arrived. As it got closer the sounds created by its chugging and bells and whistles became very loud as they always do and the two divas had to raise their voices so to speak over it. The train came to a stop and the two divas were right by the door. They tossed their cigarettes away, and when the door slid open they tried to board at the same time and collided. Now they noticed each other.
    “Pardon me,” said the first diva. “Can’t you see that I’m a diva and I’m getting on the train?”
    “Uh, pardon me,” said the second diva. “Can’t you see that I’m a diva and I have an issue with the bank and I’m the only one who should get on the train first?”
    “Uh, I don’t give a damn about your issue. I’m trying to get my daddy to stop the rain so my hair doesn’t get all ruined.”
    “I’ve got news for you, your hair is already ruined.”
    “No it isn’t.”
    “Yes it is.”
    Then they stood staring at each other, and we all stood staring at them wondering how this was going to go down.
    What happened next is going to seem unbelievable to you dear reader, but it’s the absolute truth. Both divas began to open their mouths, slowly, first appearing to be jawdroppingly shocked at each other, but then their jaws kept opening, and opening, more than the human jaw was meant to, and then we could hear the sound of bone cracking as their jaws unhinged and opened some more. From each of their mouths came strange blackened claws belonging to creatures found in nightmares. These claws held the sides of the open mouths and up from each of the divas throats came skinny impish hobgoblins covered with and dripping oily black slime.
    When the creatures were out, the bodies of the divas became slackened and void of life and fell to the pavement like discarded clothing. The two creatures hissed at each other and then began to fight. Clawing and kicking and biting. People in the crowd shrieked and some ran but most stayed to watch the horror. The fight ended with the creature that had come from the original diva’s insides eating the new diva whole. When it made the last swallow the victorious creature regarded the people in the crowd for only a moment before turning and jumping atop the train, and appeared to flip us the bird. Then it kept on jumping, away, disappearing behind the shopping mall on the other side of the tracks.
    “Did you see that?” Lester asked me.
    “Everyone saw that,” I said. “But I’m not sure what that was.”
    “Me thinks it was she and she is just what she said she was.”
    “A diva?”
    “A diva.”
    “God help us.”

Dad’s Dilemma

    “Dad, I’m not going downstairs!” The overwhelming ammonia smell covered up the stench. Trying to avoid the fumes in the upstairs bedroom, I took in shallow breaths.
    “Sweetie, you’re a college grad. Don’t you think that it’s time you went into the basement? There’s some stuff belonging to your mom that she would like you to have. Then you can pack them up.” His mud brown eyes bulged out at me from behind gold wire rimmed spectacles. “There are boxes downstairs.” Dad’s miniscule maroon lips turned up into an uneven arc. “Don’t say that I didn’t warn you.”
    The thought of wearing my mom’s castoffs did not appeal to me. I squinted my eyes and stared at him. “You’re the husband. Why don’t you pack them up? It’s the least you can do, since you never did much for her.”
    I picked up a big, white, jug sitting beside his torn, faded recliner. “Are you planning death by disinfectant?”
    He chuckled. “Are you afraid that your mom will pop out of the dark and scare you to death?”
    “I would be thrilled to see. But you are the one who should be worried. She might hit you over the head with the iron she used on your undershirts.” My lips stretched into a grin, showing teeth.
    Then red, blue, and black colors danced before my eyes. I put down the container. Feeling dizzy from the fumes, I moved toward the window. My clammy fingers slipped as I worked at opening the lock. “Whe wa th lasss time you open th window?” I slurred.
    “Don’t open it,” Dad barked.
    I opened the lock and struggled to shove the sticky window frame up. Letting out a swooshing sound, the wooden structure moved. Gripping the paint chipped molding, my head fell against the screen. I gulped in air. Turning around I said, “It’s time to man up. I’m tired of cleaning up after your messes.”
    His face sagged. White stubble peeked out from between the folds in his skin. He grumbled. “I can’t move the body myself.”

    I pointed to the bed. “That’s not just a body. She’s my mom.” I went to the bed and sat on the edge. With great effort, I picked up mom’s stiff hand. It felt like lifting steel. That hand, at one time, was soft and comforting. Those fingers fixed my hair, brushed away tears, and held compresses to my forehead when I had the flu.
    “Mom, I’m so sorry that I couldn’t make the cancer go away. I would have taken your place and gone through all the pain so that you would get better.” I bent over and kissed the top of her blue-green hairless scalp.
    I smelled something burning. Startled, I turned around. “What the...”
    Dad stood there looking at me with mischief in his eyes. He held a lighted match poised above the bottle of ammonia.
    “NOOOOO!” I wailed. As I lunged at him, he dropped the match into jug.
    Whoosh.
    The lights went out.

Marilyn June Janson Bio

    Marilyn June Janson, M.S., Ed., is the author of Recipe For Rage, a suspense novel, and Tommy Jenkins: First Teleported Kid, a children’s chapter book. Her new book,The Cool Kids Story Collection, is scheduled for release in March 2011.

Chapel of Carrion

    A most pleasant light wind helped carry the young man as he crossed the tiny white bridge, the waters of the creek gurgling below as they passed over large, grey stones and dirty, black pebbles layered in the sediment. Casually feeling for his wallet and car keys he walked briskly, looking back only briefly at the church he had just departed. The breeze added to the dizzying high he felt and a surge of thirst hit him as he stepped off the bridge onto the narrow road that headed up the hollow, dancing arm in arm with the creek. His car was parked a few minutes past the next curve, so he strayed out into the road for the short walk, the heels of his black boots clicking as he moved comfortably on the blacktop. It was an unusually cool day for late August, more like the feeling of mid-October, and the humidity had drifted away after a morning rain to leave the mountains and valleys free of the usual summer sweat.
    The young man, tall and broad-shouldered, pushed his hand through his light brown hair and looked across the creek at the church again. The white paneled church rested comfortably on the small crop of bottom land hemmed between the stream and the mountain crawling up behind it. Many signs pointed to the care bestowed upon the tiny spot by its parishioners: a recently remodeled white steeple and gray roof, trimmed grass, large, flattened stones pieced together as a walkway to the rear, fresh gravel laid in front leading to the stairs, and the updated sign that read “Candor Creek Methodist Church, Reverend Budd Steward—Always Welcome.” As the young man walked he read the verse again at the bottom of the sign: “And hath forgotten the covenant of her God: for her house inclineth unto death, and her paths unto the dead (Proverbs 2:18).” Contemplating the verse he grinned a hollow sneer.
    Leaving those thoughts momentarily, the young man glanced back up the hollow to see if anyone neared. Seeing no one, he put his head down and walked on at a steady pace until brushed by a honeybee. This reminded him of the natural setting surrounding him and he began to observe it more clearly. The tall grass spread out along the banks, headed off only by the muddy water of the creek. Blue Vervain and Boneset grew well, several feet in height in fact, adding additional color. His eyes then came to rest on the weeds beside him, just off the road, and he noticed a chewing gum wrapper, discolored and soiled. In the dust between the weeds and road he passed a small pile of feces and he wondered how long it would need to decompose. The young man hesitated as he passed it and a faint smell wafted towards his nose with the continuing breeze.
    Not to tarry, his mind turned to the larger setting of the hollow and community. Forested mountains dominated the area, towering over each side of the road. Cars motored through like ants in a sidewalk crevice. Houses were randomly built at the base of the hills or on a flat piece of land, where large enough, alongside the creek. The trees were tall and thick, and even the sun had difficulty finding a direct line to the earth which gave the road a cavernous quality.
    The young man swiftly turned the curve in the road and soon arrived at his Buick parked on the roadside and facing the mouth of the hollow. A rambling Chevy shot past, surprising him as he unlocked the passenger side door. Before getting in the car he changed his clothes, including shoes. He used the vehicle to shield his body from any additional traffic. Then, he placed all of the removed clothing into a garbage bag taken from his jacket and then placed the bag on the floor of the back seat. The young man smiled, went around the car, and got in behind the wheel. He pulled out onto the road quite contentedly and drove neither too slow, nor too fast. Indeed, he thought, his mother would be proud.
    It was six miles back to the entrance of the hollow. He observed the surroundings intently while driving, recalling what he had noticed both that morning and a decade earlier when he had visited the church each Sunday, his father its pastor. Back then, as a young teenager, he had never considered where the road went after passing the church, how much farther it traveled, or where it ended. Another time, he thought now with curiosity, he should drive up the hollow and see where it led. As he viewed the life of the hollow he remembered a few houses of certain people who had attended the church back then: Mr. Humphreys the choir director, Mrs. Faglot who taught him vacation bible school, and Ms. Shamblin the piano player who also taught 5^th grade at his school but was a sinner. With his recollections the young man lost track of time and the trip seemed to pass much more quickly than ten minutes. Even the curves and one lane bridges did nothing to shake him from his reverie and soon he found himself at the mouth of the hollow.
    A convenience store rested below the embankment, five hundred yards before the entrance of the hollow. The young man remembered the store, still called J and T Beverages. He pulled off the road and parked in the gravel, craving a Dr. Pepper. Some Gummy Bears, Lemonheads, and Atomic Fireballs would be good too. Nothing new, just candies from childhood. This is what the trip was all about, he thought to himself. He remembered the Bit-O-Honey that his father had liked, the laughingstock of all candies, and thought he might even buy a couple just to see if they were really as bad as all the kids had thought back then.
    He parked, stepped out of the car, and walked down the four stairs to the door of the store. Inspecting the building carefully, he laughed about how the whole place needed a good wash. He thought how some of the places in the hollow looked like they grew right up from out of the soil. A barking mutt walked out from the side of the building, chained and wagging its tail. The young man looked at it pathetically. He turned back to open the screen door and read the large sign posted on it: “Cold Beer Real Cold.”
    Inside J and T Beverages the wooden floor boards creaked like something was dead in them. The aisles were narrow and the shelves were stocked high, but no one else was inside except for the heavy man behind its counter. Wearing a flannel shirt and a ripe beard, the young man looked closely at him and realized it was Jesse’s older brother, Lyle. The beard and pot belly were new, but he could tell by his eyes. Quickly he calculated Lyle’s age and knew he had to be much younger than his appearance showed. He also knew Lyle couldn’t recognize him, wouldn’t even remember him unless he presented himself. That did not stop Lyle from looking him down real good, however.
    The young man gave a simple greeting and continued on to the aisles that were stocked just how he remembered ten years before, down to the product itself for the most part. Enjoyment came instantly as he began to gather up the candy. There were even a few items that he had forgotten himself such as Boston Baked Beans, Watermelon Laffy Taffy, and Hubba Bubba. The strawberry and grape Nerds were his favorite surprise and Lyle could undoubtedly hear his good-natured laugh upon finding them. There was so much to choose from that the young man returned to the front door to take a shopping basket. After fifteen minutes of filling it with candy he went to the back of the store and saw the first Dad’s Root Beer and Dr. Nehi he had seen in ten years. He placed a few of the sixteen ounce bottles inside his basket and then contentedly proceeded to the counter.
    As Lyle counted up the candy and sodas, the young man had a number of questions in his mind, but he kept quiet and waited for Lyle to do the interrogating.
    “Lotta candy yer buyin’,” Lyle said as the total quickly passed a hundred dollars.
    “Yeah, we’re havin’ a couple of birthday parties,” the young man lied as he slipped back into the local accent, the accent of his childhood.
    Lyle left it at that and completed his job packing the candy in bags. The young man was surprised that there were no further questions, but he knew by Lyle’s body language that Lyle wondered who he was and from where he came. If there was a next time, maybe he would reintroduce himself and give Lyle some more to talk about.
    In a few minutes the young man was back in his car, popped open the Dr. Nehi, and ripped open a packet of Nerds. Enjoying their popping fizz he quickly started the car and immediately turned out of the hollow onto Route 60. He picked up speed going east, but made sure he didn’t go faster than the state’s speed limit. There were quicker ways to get to the state line, but he wanted to drive through Hawk’s Nest again, wanted a more scenic route. It would probably be years before he returned, maybe not until the next high school reunion ten years forward.
    As he settled into his driving and steadied his speed, the young man began to think about that strange feeling of satisfaction. There was a feeling of invincibility that seemed to come every time. He could still feel it, but he knew the rush was already beginning to wear off. He realized a part of his ability to reason clearly turned off as well, but this too was part of the high that kept him returning again and again. Anyway, he rationalized, by the time they found it, probably on Wednesday evening, discolored in green, he would be long gone. He remembered again how he left it: angelic, ethereal, softly asleep, and freshly painted.
    The road was as majestic and swirling as he remembered, a smooth artery cutting through the blotted land. For awhile the road was closed in by the mountains and the car floated inside them, hidden under the canopy of trees. Moments later the road crawled out and moved openly amidst a wide panorama. Green slopes cascaded under a free sky that was a crisp light blue with touches of smoke. Engaged in the scenery of his land, its beauty confirmed he had made a good decision to come this way. In less than an hour he had reached the New River Gorge. He drove on to Fayetteville where he crossed the gorge’s bridge and then decided to turn back to stop at a scenic overlook.
    Stepping out of his car, the air was fresher than back in the Kanawha Valley. He approached the railing and looked out over the mountains and down at the gorge below, formed by a river at least ten million years old, maybe thirty times as much. He thought about some of his old friends he had seen for the first time in years at the reunion over the weekend. It had been fun, great fun, but none of them were worth keeping in touch.
    Not so far in the distance he could see the v-shape flight of three turkey vultures soaring gracefully and he remembered studying them as a Scout. Feeding solely on carrion, the young man recollected the hisses and grunts of their limited vocal capabilities. He also recalled seeing their defensive tactic of vomiting up a recent meal to scare away enemies and thought about the disgust of the smell. Then he remembered seeing Vince, Sarah, and Cassie over the weekend for the first time since graduation. He saw others he despised as well, but now they all seemed plastic, pieces of a biologically, pre-determined puzzle, nothing to really get angry over.
    He did not remain at the overlook for long, but was soon back in the car heading toward Virginia. He would drive on to Richmond before heading south to Wilmington.
    He reminded himself that on arrival he would need to burn the clothes. High above him, the turkey vultures spied on his car as it cut down the veins of the mountains.

    In his mind he held the tan, finely-chiseled flint and he pushed it hard between his forefinger and thumb until the arrowhead drew blood. The new find glistened, freshly pulled from the headwaters of the creek a short walk from his home. Surrounded by woods thick with deer up until the day they cleared the area for the new interstate highway, no one could see him there. He had a sense that the thick trees also protected his imagination from modern interference, allowing him to see his own visions whenever he went to roam over the crevices of the mountain’s slopes or sit on the large boulders that jutted from the ridge. Looking closely at the arrowhead he thought hard to imagine the last hand that had touched it. With the thought, he began to shake. He saw a hand that was smooth yet sharp, hard but almost soft, like the tool itself, and then he understood why the body he carried reminded him of that time in his past, that day he had found his first arrowhead.
    A trace of light carried itself through the lone window, the only vestige of opposition to the darkness. He could see the dust dance in its rays as it pushed down to his ground of gray. There was no sign of motion or other light during his glance back to the front door. Kneeling down at the altar he felt the butt end of the flashlight he had placed inside his jacket. In front of him on the floor lay what was both his prize and burden, and he thought overconfidently how easy it had been to bring her here. Instinct and adrenalin left his mind spinning, the feeling that pushed him each time.
    The eyes were still open when he carefully removed the body from the bag. He had breathed for the both of them and moved each limb so that it was laid out at full extension on the ground just in front of the altar. There was not sufficient light to notice the twitching finger or the pallid flesh, but the hands were placed carefully across the abdomen and the hair brushed back from the forehead. The cheek bones had seemed to grow and as they jutted out the face became more beautiful, less a stranger. She had talked big last night, but then could do very little.
    “Just as I am, without one plea. But that thy blood was shed for me.” He could again hear the depressing intonations, the gloom of the melody, and the heaviness of the song, still slamming him into the ground even in memory. He had sat in these pews fifteen years ago until his insides were ripped and torn and it had taken a long time for the pressure to even begin to subside. A congregation, a culture, a family, all still pressed on his skull, still chastised and confused him, still expected him to follow their stifling self-righteousness. There was no place to escape or find an alternative when the full backing of eternity supported their tension, pushing him in a direction he did not want, did not feel, did not believe in.
    He remembered the many altar calls that he suffered through, even down to the exact spots where he sat and what he wore on specific days. He remembered the pressure that shot pains through his temples as he struggled with the morose force of their singing. He remembered the seconds moving slowly while he felt their “join us or be damned” stares. He was a good boy he had believed, but a good boy condemned.
    “I come,” the young man said to himself. “I come,” he repeated again, just as each verse ended to the song. In his recollections he saw them cutting his hair, taking off his green pants, telling him who to vote for, and preventing his date with the Korean girl. He heard them damning the homosexual as well as the Hindu, felt the tension of their exclusion, and saw the beautiful paradise only for those who agreed. He saw his return trips home after the services and heard the pastor gossip with mother once they arrived home, badmouthing people who had looked at him wrong during the sermon, who had questioned his authority, or who paraded the wrong dogma. God’s redemption hid behind the screen to validate as needed. This was his father, with all the pettiness of a man, believing he was close to God.
    “Life will be better now,” the young man said to her. “We are saved.” He bent over and looked down at the face, difficult to see except for its contours. Touching her forehead he tilted the head sideways and ran his finger through each of her eyebrows. Behind him he knew the pews were full, rejoicing over another soul that had come to the altar, saved on arrival. “Save us from hell,” he said, closing her eyelids. “Give us life eternal, Lord.” His hand petted her hair, then moved down to her cheek as he looked up at the wooden cross hanging behind the pulpit. He heard his father’s call to the altar again, voice raised and pleading. He saw his tiny eyes peering out into the crowd, even into his own heart like a bloody blade, and saw the formation of his mock tears. Finally, he had decided to come. Finally he had accepted the invitation, bringing his sins with him to the altar, bringing with him a fresh sin.
    He took out some foundation makeup and carefully applied it to her face, followed by a brick red shade of lipstick. He smoothed it over her lips slowly despite the darkness hampering his vision. Then he took out his flashlight and shined its beam on her face to see his progress. Feeling content, he made some final touches and then removed his hand, turned off the flashlight. The congregation behind him had stopped their singing. Now he would not touch the face again.
    He stuffed the garbage bag inside a light jacket he wore and stood up. Finally, he looked at her one last time and felt a mixture of discordant emotions, different but every bit as confusing as the ones more than a decade earlier. Then he departed the sanctuary through the small door behind the altar. In the hall outside, he turned on his flashlight again and made his way down the stairs. The air conditioner in the basement had kicked off, leaving complete silence. Once downstairs he went straight to the door with a busted window, unlocked it, and went out.
    There was a pleasant light wind as he turned the corner from behind the chapel, and he headed for the bridge.

Timothy B. Dodd Bio

    Timothy B. Dodd grew up in Mink Shoals, WV and currently is an ESL teacher in Philadelphia, PA. He completed undergraduate studies in comparative religion at Wesleyan University and a master’s degree in multicultural education at Eastern University. In addition to writing, he enjoys oil painting and traveling the world, particularly the Republic of Georgia and back to Appalachia.

Ceremony

    She wears a gossamer gown and a tiara of stars. The stone walls flicker with torchlight. Incense burns. She is nailed to a cross. Pain stabs through her palms. Her spiked feet quiver together. Phantoms sit beneath her in the grottos of the dark.
    “For your hands are defiled with blood.” A dark voice below her echoes, as rivulets of blood trickle from her wounds, “and your fingers with iniquity. Your lips have spoken lies.
    And your tongue mutters wickedness. You live in the dark like the dead. And you weave a spider’s web.”
    She sighs, shifts, struggles again. Her body feels shapeless. Everything is like hell. In the cavern below her, ghoulish depictions of herself, lighted by candles, appear in each stained glass window. In them her alabaster skin looks like a crude, pastel rendering done with coarse, grainy chalk. Her red hair is witchy, like a tangle of wildfire, storm tossed.
    “Arise! Shine!” The dark voice thunders. “For the light has come!”
    The phantoms lift their dead eyes and glare at her. She sees her mother and father among them, her siblings, relatives, neighbors and friends. She can tell by their expressions they are trapped as she is, captives of Satan. Wide doors fly open. Sunlight floods the church.
    The white pall becomes a blizzard. She falls from the cross into a nether land, tries to run. Earth, wind, sky are one: ghost veils whirling in a winter storm. “Here comes the bride,” the winter whispers, “all dressed in white.” She can see nothing, as she stumbles through the snow drifts. The world is erased. Wind whipped shrouds swirl around like spirits in an holy dream.
    She is awake; her eyes are open. Half human, half shadow, Sarah rises from her bed, her troubled sleep and her troubled life like the frenzied flight of a bat dancing in her head.
    Light streams in from the window’s parted curtains. The room is thronged with ashen men and women. It is from a coffin she has risen. Her bridal gown shimmers in the bright light of the sun. But there is no bride’s radiance in her, just doom and Armageddon.
    “For as much as it is the almighty God’s ordination,” speaks a tall, pale phantom, “that flesh hath soul and thereby is empowered with a spirit, so also may spirit retain the prison of the flesh, even when it leaveth the flesh and liveth as a thing apart.”
    Dressed in the garments of the grave, still and silent, the gathering stares with blank expressions in her petrified direction.
    “And so, forever, as a thing apart,” the dark voice rumbles, “even from all thus parted, the damned must dwell in the realm of the damned, neither flesh nor spirit, neither living nor dead.”
    Sarah opens her eyes. The night is still there. In the blackness she can sense, all aroundher, the presence of the dead. “All dead, all dead.” She shudders trying to clear her head. Her old bones ache as she gropes her way across the room. The shutters bang and the rafters rock.
    Her withered reflection in the mirror, when she turns on the light, meets her with a shock.
    Sarah is awake. Her eyes are open. Through half closed eyes she sees the dead around her bed...

    Rain moves in from the sea. Sarah sits in her rocking chair by the garret window and watches it drizzle. A black pall is drifting across the bay. Lightening flickers in the distance.
    She can hear the wind wail and the waves crash across the reefs. Cross Cove will be hit by a hurricane. The thunder echoes with the dark voice in her dream. It is the voice of her husband.
    They were so young. She never loved him. It was a pity she had to poison him. But there was no other way. Sometimes she can sense his ghost around the old house. He had the last laugh.
    Her lover, who was a fisherman, was drowned soon after in a typhoon. “Here comes the bride.”
    Sarah sings softly to herself, as she rocks in her chair and the shutters bang. She remembers the beautiful gown she wore at her wedding. “All dressed in white.”

All Motor

    Larry Lynche in the penthouse asked me if I had ever been to a Greyhound Race. I said I’m not a sports guy, but OK...
    Larry was an attorney: smart, successful, nice place, great car. Here was an opportunity to spend some time and get to know him, maybe even learn something.
    He pointed out that Greyhound Racing in our state was illegal - legislated away due to allegations of animal drugging and cruelty. Larry assured me that wasn’t so at his “private club”.
    We hopped in the big Porsche Panamera and picked up Larry’s brother, whose name was Paul Parsons. Paul was a genetic researcher. Larry declined to explain why his brother had a different last name.
    The Greyhound Place, unsanctioned, was very low-profile, but five-star all the way. Larry told me if he ever got sick, he wanted to be treated by the Vets there, instead of being taken to a human hospital.
    I was informed the slowest Greyhound there could blow the doors off any legal track dog. In car talk these dogs were Pro Stock, that is, all motor. They were bigger than I expected, and they put out a strange vibe - feral, edgy, paranormal - but then I really didn’t know what to expect.
    Larry’s dog was named King. Like Stephen, the writer. I liked King right away. The races were OK, not really exciting, but it’s subjective. When I learned that King was coming back with us tonight along with Paul Parsons, I knew I’d be learning more about Greyhounds.
    That night we watched the History Channel; drank strong dark coffee, bottled water, and ate. King had been fed and watered.
    In addition to being quite large for a Greyhound, King was muscular to the extreme. He was a “blue”, in dog breeder talk, although he seemed black to me. It must have been the combination of that color and the room lighting which made King look so pumped... all motor.
    Larry, being a lawyer, could and did talk plenty most of the evening. His “brother” Parsons was briefer. I mainly listened.
    The topics were politics, science, fast cars, and fast dogs. Larry told us the big Panamera was soon to be traded for a Ferrari 612 being customized and tuned at the shop. Larry was a real car guy. He could afford it.
    Paul Parsons, PhD., expanded during the science and dog portions. I noted that King had surpassed my expectations, but I qualified the statement by saying I knew very little about dogs in general, and even less about Greyhounds.
    King knew when it was his turn in the spotlight. He was very mild-mannered and steady, as I had expected after studying Greyhounds on the Internet. He even smiled like dogs do when they are happy.
    Parsons warmed up with a concise history of wolves, dogs, hunting dogs, and racing dogs. I was impressed. The information and the dog’s participation were interesting and fun.
    I did notice that King’s eyes had very pale irises, gray flecked with yellow, which seemed unusual based on my limited Greyhound research. I’m a generalist, but I tend to notice things such as wolf eyes.
    Next Parsons proceeded to Mendelian Genetics, “cutting” DNA, targeting, and he described how recessive genes worked. He explained that mutations could provide both good results and unintended consequences.
    It was getting really late. We just barely managed to wrap it up before sunrise. Then I went home downstairs.
    The following day I remembered how Larry seemed a bit shaky during the dog and science class, as if he wanted it to be over quickly.
    That next weekend I noticed Larry Lynche and I hadn’t crossed paths at the condo parking area all week long. For a while I worked as a rent-a-cop, also known as “security”. Part of that job included studying people’s habits.
    I gave Larry a ring on my cell, no answer. Then I called his legal firm. I was curious and concerned. It turned out that Larry had not reported in all week. They were getting worried about their Public Relations... Oh, and Larry too.
    I had Paul Parson’s number on my cell and used it. Nothing. I performed a cursory Internet search, and then decided to save time and just go up to the penthouse and visit Larry.
    I had learned a few “locksmithing techniques” in security work and got inside easily. I was prepared for the alarm but it was turned off. Door cracked; the air smelled a bit like copper and iron, familiar and disturbing.
    I opened it cautiously, wondering if King was home, and would he remember me? Yes. King, inscrutable wolf eyes, tail wagging, still wearing that doggy grin. I hoped he wasn’t contemplating removing a section of my already trim derrière.
    The hallway was dim and there was something strange about King’s teeth. That dog was plenty mysterious; he must have been some sort of extreme hybrid. Then I remembered what Paul Parsons had said about mutations and consequences.
    King allowed me inside. I turned on the hall lights, noticed the little door on the alarm was unshut, and that were some scratches on the otherwise pristine sky-blue painted walls.
    I discovered Larry in a pool of what looked like blood, based on the fact that his head was nearly entirely removed from his body. King’s teeth were different... they were red. King’s performance seemed to be premeditated then carefully executed for timely review and judgment.
    King kept up the smiles, eyes and teeth, looking forward to approval. His tail cycled optimistically. That was when I called 911.
    “Yes, I hadn’t seen him all week; his law firm said he was missing... I let myself in. No, I didn’t touch anything... I was there last weekend, I’m sure I left prints there... I know you’ll check... it’s OK... Of course he’s dead. His head’s off.”
    I pocketed the cell phone and headed toward the door.
    “King, c’mon boy. Come home now.”

Alfred Hitchcock Ruined My Life

    “Really,” I say to Dr. O’Dell. “It’s the truth. Alfred Hitchcock ruined my life.”
    Dr. O’Dell wipes the top of his bald head and tucks a damp handkerchief into his shirt pocket. The heat in his office is oppressive. He’s in his shortsleeves, his sports jacket hanging limply on a rack near the door.
    I’m wearing my best linen suit—thank heavens I had permission not to wear the orange jumpsuit—and wondering if the air-conditioning is even turned on. I pull the neck of my white shirt away from my neck. “Any chance we could leave the door open? Even a crack?”
    “The guard’s out there,” he reminds me.
    “I have nothing to hide.” I’ll tell Dr. O’Dell the truth, he’ll testify at my trial, and this whole prison business will be a thing of the past. A distant memory, perhaps even someday the subject of some joke.
    Dr. O’Dell rises, opens the door a few inches, then returns to his desk. “That better?”
    “Much. There’s just something about closed doors.” I end with a shiver.
    Dr. O’Dell’s lips curl in a chilly smile. “So, Alfred Hitchcock ruined your life,” he repeats, his tone brusque.
    Brusque? Had I done something to offend him? Unlikely. ‘Specially in less than a minute.
    “Care to explain?” he continues.
    “I was thirteen. In the eighth grade. Do you remember the eighth grade, Dr. O’Dell?”
    His smile has yet to reach his eyes. “Everyone remembers the eighth grade, but my memories don’t matter. I’m far more interested in yours.”
    As well he should be, I think. He is the doctor.
    “Actually,” I say, “most of the eighth grade was pretty good.” Memories swirl. Eighth grade, the second year of junior high. The safe year. The kid-in-a-new-school year was over, anxiety about starting high school still far away. All conditions set for a really good year. A year of rock-’n’-roll. “Personality” by Lloyd Price. Buddy Holly and the Crickets, then Buddy Holly without the Crickets—at least until The Crash. Then no Buddy Holly at all. And on a plateau above them all was the King, rockin’ in a jailhouse and lovin’ tender.
    That year we danced to all the music at sock hops in the school gym. We wore thick white socks with saddle oxfords. And poodle skirts! I had two, a pink-felt skirt with a white poodle on it and a blue-felt skirt with a black poodle. Nancy and Drew, I called them—the poodles, not the skirts. On both, the poodles’ ears were made of thick yarn that bunched out on either side of their heads—like real ears would’ve done. Each skirt, topped with a matching cinch belt, was designed to be worn with one of those short-sleeved wool sweaters. Probably angora, unless it made you sneeze. I was lucky; it didn’t.
    Dr. O’Dell clears his throat. “But eighth grade was when the Alfred Hitchcock business occurred, wasn’t it?”
    “Not until spring.” Before then the year was great. I was secretary of the student council, a position I’d been elected to the previous May. Talk about signs of being popular. A truism of U.S. high schools in the 1960s: To be elected anything, you had to be popular. Of course, my popularity extended way beyond being elected to office. At one point that year nine boys had given me their class rings, each with a gold chain to be worn around my neck. That’s how popular I was.
    But even such popularity didn’t keep me from making mistakes, like the one day I wore all nine rings at the same time. They settled front and center on my chest, so that when I walked I led with my head—chin jutting forward, body catching up. Like some pigeon bobbing across a park. Actually I didn’t realize how I might look until some seventh graders started imitating me. Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, but those girls ... Well, let’s say that for them leading with the head wasn’t all that graceful. So I never wore all the rings together again. Wouldn’t want my admirers looking foolish.
    “Mrs. Vandergeld?” Dr. O’Dell is making himself comfortable in a leather wingback chair near a window. Outside, green leaves droop from the branches of an oak tree, He cleans out his pipe, ashes cascading into a standing ashtray.
    I find a pipe-smoking psychiatrist comforting. Like a policeman who chomps down on lollipops. Or a sheriff who doesn’t wear a gun. Maybe I’d lucked out with Dr. O’Dell—even if he is a court-appointed doctor. The thing is that in this state everyone arrested for murder must attend at least one session with a psychiatrist. Yes, I said murder. And what a laugh that is, especially since the whole thing shows how easily misunderstandings occur. Now all I have to do is convince Dr. O’Dell that Tad’s accident truly was an accident.
    “The eighth grade?” Dr. O’Dell reminds me. “Before Alfred Hitchcock showed up?”
    “Right. There was one Friday in the fall. I’d missed the last three sock-hops ‘cause I’d been in the hospital having my appendix out, and I still had these orders about things I couldn’t do. Top of the list was fast dancing. Of course, that was what all the guys wanted me to do. What can I say? I really got into the rhythm—the faster, the better. Then this one song—new to me ‘cause it landed on the charts while I was in the hospital—started playing. Real slow and romantic. At least a dozen guys raced over to ask me to dance. I did one-potato-two-potato and wound up with Paul Elliot. He was tall with dark hair and dreamy blue eyes. But that’s not important. What’s important is that we were moving across the floor, dancing real tight, when the music changed. Paul started jitterbugging, so I pulled away and reminded him I couldn’t do that. Some kids noticed and started chanting, ‘Martha’s not dancing, Martha’s not dancing.’ They were real disappointed. Yeah, eighth grade was great.”
    I look up to see if my story-telling has impressed Dr. O’Dell. Hard to tell. His expression is noncommittal. But I have to be convincing him. People believe me. Always.
    “I trust,” he says, “that Alfred Hitchcock will be showing up soon.”
    “Actually, he’s already shown up.” I tell Dr. O’Dell about Alfred Hitchcock Presents, a thirty-minute television show that came on Sunday nights. I realize Dr. O’Dell’s young, but is he really young enough not to remember Alfred Hitchcock Presents? Shoot. Seems impossible that anyone could be that young. I end my description with, “Everyone watched it.”
    “And because everyone watched it, you did it, too. And one episode told you how to commit the perfect murder?”
    “Don’t remember anything about a perfect murder,” I say, “but one episode was called ‘Martha Mason, Movie Star.’”
    “So?”
    “Martha Mason was my maiden name.” Surely he’d known that unless—a horrible thought occurs—he hadn’t read my file.
    “Of course,” he says. “And you became a movie star. That’s kind of cute.” He pauses, perhaps waiting for me to respond. I don’t. “Well,” he goes on. “Judging from your expression, there’s some problem I’m not grasping.”
    I tell him about the week that followed the airing of “Martha Mason, Movie Star,” momentous because on that Thursday the final in-school round of a spelling bee would be held. I’d already won in my homeroom and would compete against the winners from all the other eighth grade classes. The way my life had been going, I figured I should stop by the school office and pick up my trophy. Why put all the other kids through the shame of losing?”
    “So,” Dr. O’Dell asks, “did you win?”
    “No. But it didn’t matter.” Shoot. The results of that spelling bee were much worse than merely losing. On that long-ago and chilly spring day, rain had washed down windows. Steam heaters hissed as students made their way into the school auditorium where a dozen folding chairs formed two rows on the stage. I sat in the front row, the far left chair to be precise, and waited. Steadily the room filled up. Kids settled in the old-fashioned folding wooden chairs while conversations ebbed and flowed. My friends sat directly before me, in the first, second and third rows of the auditorium. I smiled at them; they grinned back. Wow! What a collection—boys with duck-ass haircuts, girls in pastel sweaters with white lace dickeys at their necks. They were my friends. The cool crowd. Yes, life was good. And, as I now realize, would remain so for the next ten minutes.
    The spelling bee began. We raced through the first few rounds.
    O-R-D-I-N-A-R-Y.
    K-N-A-C-K.
    S-P-E-C-I-A-L.
    The words got harder.
    E-X-P-L-O-R-A-T-O-R-Y.
    P-R-O-M-I-S-C-U-O-U-S. (That one got a laugh. Or was it a snicker?)
    Finally only three of us remained onstage. Me, Carlton Jones and Paige Turner. The emcee signaled for me to take the microphone. I walked front and center, then nodded.
    “Chlorophyll,” he announced..
    I took a breath. “Chlorophyll. C-L-O-R-O-P-H-Y-L-L. Chlorophyll.”
    The buzzer squawked, but not fast enough. Right before I said the last letter my stomach cramped. I felt a release of air and sniffed. Had anyone noticed? Two girls in the first row giggled. I glanced behind me. Paige, wearing a decidedly sour expression, twitched her pert little nose. Everyone knew what happened.
    Minutes later the spelling bee ended. The winner and runner-up remained onstage to hear about the county contest; we losers hurried offstage to find our friends. Mine were waiting for me at the back of the auditorium. But it didn’t take long to realize the term “friends” was now inaccurate.
    Paul Elliot, flanked by his best friends Curtis Ames and Leonard Schwartz, slouched in front of a window near the lobby entrance.
    Leonard stepped forward as I neared the three of them. He swept a pretend hat off his head and took a deep bow. “Men,” he said, “assume the position. It’s Martha Mason, movie star. Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle.” Raising up on his toes, he turned, his hands arched over his head, ballerina style.
    “Movie star?” Curtis sneered. “She done already lost that academy award.”
    “Hey,” Paul suggested, “maybe ‘movie star’ ain’t the right word. How ‘bout ‘movie fart’?” He stuck his tongue out and blew a Bronx cheer. “Phffft.”
    Curtis joined in. “My dog farts like that. ‘Movie dog’! Arf! Arf!”
    “I know,” Paul said, trumping them all, “it’s ‘movie vomit’!” He leaned over and aimed at the floor. “Blaah!”
    “Funny.” I shoved open the auditorium door and stormed outside. “Real funny!” I yelled back. But I wasn’t terribly worried. I knew that by tomorrow the movie-whatever nonsense would have blown over; everything would be back to normal.
    “So, did everything return to normal?” Dr. O’Dell prompts.
    “No.” The next day Paul, Curtis and Leonard, waiting for me inside the school’s main entrance, became a chorus line. “Twinkle.” Arms over their heads, they turned on their toes. Phffft! They gave a Bronx cheer. “Arf, arf!” they barked. And, they “blaahed” towards the floor. “The next day was even worse.”
    “Really?” Dr. O’Dell returns to his desk, pulls a small notebook out of the center drawer, and writes something.
    “Really! First of all, report cards came out that day, and I only got a B in math.”
    Dr. O’Dell frowns. “There’s something wrong with a B?”
    “With that one there was.” I explain that I’ve never been very good in math. “All that stuff about trains leaving Chicago and arriving in Los Angeles? Who needs it? You don’t need math to figure out when you’ll get there. A schedule’ll tell you. Besides, who takes trains anyway? That long a distance, people fly.”
    Dr. O’Dell peers at me over the top of his glasses. “In that case I should think a B would be looking pretty good.”
    “It wasn’t. You see, that grading period we’d been studying plane geometry, and I loved it. There’d be a picture of some shape and a statement about, say, one of the angles. Then there’d a bunch of steps you have to go through to prove the statement is true. It made sense to me. It didn’t even feel like math. It was like thinking with visual aids. I got it and never made less than a ninety-five on any test during that grading period. Then the teacher gave me a B!”
    “I can see where that might be upsetting,” Dr. O’Dell says, “but a B on a report card in high school ruined your life? Surely you’re resilient enough to—”
    “I said that was just the first thing.”
    “Go on.”
    I jump ahead to college and explain that my high school experience in math had so undermined my confidence that I put off taking my freshman math requirement until my senior year. It was a good plan. I was a better student then. In four years I’d learned how to study and concentrate. Little did I know that during those same four years something called “new math” had arrived. Gone were adding, subtracting, multiplying and dividing. Instead there were “sets.” Sets? Sets were used in stage plays. They were matching dishes on a table, or they housed TVs. But sets in math? Absurd! Still, I listened. I concentrated really hard.
    About a month into the semester, the professor started class by writing a problem on the board. He talked a bit, added more numbers, letters and symbols to the problem. Eventually he filled every inch of the four blackboards built into the room. He stood back and looked at all he’d done. His lips tightened; with his index finger he pushed his glasses farther up on the bridge of his nose. “Class dismissed,” he said.
    “Why?” asks Dr. O’Dell.
    “At first I had no idea.” But I did find out.
    Outside the classroom I caught up with the guy who sat next to me and plunged into the subject. “Why’d he dismiss class?”
    “He got the problem wrong.”
    “Oh.” I’d missed it completely. Maybe it was a guy thing. Back then everybody knew guys did better in math than girls.
    At lunch I left the cafeteria line and headed over to a table where two girls from my math class, Lois DePre and Melanie Mendelson, were talking and laughing. I placed my tray on the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “What’s so funny?”
    Lois stopped laughing. “Dr. Pearson. He looked like such a schmuck when he got that problem wrong.”
    “Didn’t he?” Melanie said, a lazy eye forcing her to focus on the ceiling.
    Whatever. No longer could I label understanding Dr. Pearson’s screw-up a guy thing. So I let the two of them have their laugh, ate fast, then hurried out of the cafeteria and hightailed it across campus to my faculty advisor’s office. Luckily he was there; I was able to drop the class.
    “So, because Alfred Hitchcock titled a show ‘Martha Mason, Movie Star,’ you never graduated from college.” Dr. O’Dell turns to a new page in his notebook and writes, but now there’s definitely something in his voice. A chill? Regardless, I assure him that I did indeed graduate.
    He looks up. “You said the math class was a requirement.”
    “I took a freshman-level logic course instead. Made an A. Absolutely loved it.”
    Dr. O’Dell puts his pen down beside the notebook. “You know,” he says, “I’m still having trouble grasping exactly how Alfred Hitchcock ruined—”
    “It wasn’t just math.”
    “Oh?”
    I move onto the hard stuff. The rest of my time in high school? Nothing but disappointments. Grades lower than I deserved. Being stood up on dates. And my senior prom? For that, I didn’t even have a date. I played bridge with my parents and a friend, a girl who was an even bigger loser than myself.
    My first two years of college were more of the same. Then my junior year everything turned around. I made the dean’s list. I had dates for all the big events. And finally, during the fall of my senior year I fell in love with—believe it or not—a genuine BMOC. Thaddeus Vandergeld was the golden boy of the Theatre Department. Blond with blue eyes and a sexy smile, he was ready to become any tortured character Tennessee Williams ever put onstage. And Tad’s achievements weren’t limited to acting. He minored in PoliSci and was passionate—about things on campus, things in the country and things in the world.
    At first we competed. Obviously not for roles in campus productions, but for everything else—the best grade on a test, who’d land the first Broadway role, whose family the name of our first child would carry on. And then we started dating, but even then our competition continued. In our most ambitious dreams we’d argue over who’d be elected president and who’d wind up as first lady or first husband.
    “So,” Dr. O’Dell says, “did everything come true?” The oddity in his tone, now a definite coldness, intensifies.
    “You mean, did either of us become president?” I ask, my tone snide if not quite mocking.
    “That I probably would have known.”
    Probably? “That” would have been in the news. If not, surely in my paperwork I would have mentioned— No! A nasty and unwanted thought returns, hijacking my line of thinking. Had he read my file? I fix him with a look. That’ll show him I’m not about to put up with shoddy, second-class work. He meets my gaze head-on, showing no sign of discomfort. His fingernails tap rhythmically against the wooden surface of his desk, and I continue, “Actually, Tad stood me up at the altar.”
    Dr. O’Dell opens another desk drawer and pulls out a folder—mine, I assume. “But your married name is Vandergeld,” he says.
    “I don’t like to lose.”
    He smiles. A sign of warmth and confidence? Perhaps. “Determination’s a good thing. You have no idea how many patients—”
    I wave him silent. “Three times.”
    “Three times what?”
    “Three times he left me at the altar. The fourth time he finally showed up.” I refrain from telling Dr. O’Dell that each attempt resulted in a smaller wedding. In attendance when the service actually took place were one bridesmaid, my sister’s daughter as flower girl, and my mother. We celebrated with a cupcake.
    “You married a man who left you standing at the altar three times?” Dr. O’Dell sounds incredulous.
    “Determination’s no longer a good thing?” I counter.
    He opens his mouth, then stops. Clearly biting back some response, he shakes his head and asks, “But since then you’ve been together?”
    I nod. “There’ve been rough spots, but we’ve worked through them all until ... until ...”
    “The accident?” Dr. O’Dell suggests.
    “It was just that, you know. An accident.”
    “There’s no need to be defensive.”
    Really? “You wouldn’t be the first person who didn’t believe me.” I shudder at the memory. Detectives. Questions. That room where they’d interrogated me. What had they called it? The box?
    Dr. O’Dell tilts back in his desk chair. “Perhaps you should tell me your version.”
    And now I’ve had it. There is definitely something off in his behavior, something judgmental. “Perhaps I wouldn’t have to tell you if you’d bothered to read anything in my file.”
    He remains calm. “Please. An oral recitation tells me so much more about the events. And the person.”
    I shrug. What the hell? He is the expert. Supposedly. “There was the city council election. The one where Tad and I ran for the same seat.” I wonder if I need to explain that the sense of competition that started when we first met still ran strong in our marriage.
    “Let’s see.” He skims a page in my folder. “Yes. The one he won and you lost.”
    Does the “good doctor” think I need reminding? Unless he’s thinking ... “Tad’s accident is in no way connected to his win.”
    “Go on.”
    What can I say? Three days after the election, I was having my morning coffee–one cup, black, no sugar–and reading the paper. Editorials, letters to the editor were all analyzing why I’d lost. Such an unexpected outcome. You see, everyone knew I’d been in tune with the public. There’s only one way to explain what happened, so I tell Dr. O’Dell, “If ‘Martha Mason, Movie Star’ had never aired, my popularity would have continued. I would have married a high school sweetheart. We would have gone to college together and had the perfect life. Today we’d be traveling to visit grandchildren.”
    “Assuming that husband would still be alive.”
    “Of course.”
    Dr. O’Dell flips a few pages in my folder. “Ah, here it is. The police report mentions a blow to the victim’s head.”
    “That’s where the misunderstanding begins. The way I figure it is that some news story about the election upset me so badly that my hand shook and I spilled my coffee. It must have splashed on the floor. Tad comes in, wearing those soft-soled slippers he loves, and—wham!—he falls flat on his back, hitting his head on the chair as he goes down.”
    “And even that is Alfred Hitchcock’s fault.”
    “There’s no other reason for me to have lost the election. Everyone knew I held the popular positions. And people always like me. Surely you can see that.”
    “No!” Dr. O’Dell slams my folder down on top of his desk.
    Startled, I lift a hand to my chest. “What—”
    “Stop right there! What I see, Mrs. Vandergeld, is yet another patient blaming everything on some trivial event in childhood. Do you know how often I hear that? Or how tired I am of it? Robbers rob because their parents didn’t give them a car on their sixteenth birthday. Rapists rape because parents allowed their daughters to wear sexy clothes. Liars lie because their fathers—or mothers—had affairs and covered them up. I’ve heard it all. Just once I’d like to have a patient walk in here and say he murdered his brother-in-law because the poor schmuck ruined every Thanksgiving dinner by burping. Loudly. Or another client say he stole his neighbor’s car because he liked the color. That would at least be honest. A refreshing change. But no. Here you are, blaming all your misdeeds on a TV show. A TV show, I might add, that aired in your adolescence. That would have been ... what? Over fifty years ago?”
    “The first time was.”
    “The first time?” Dr. O’Dell sneers. “Now, I suppose, you’ve found some rerun on TV Land or Nick-at-Night.”
    “No. But last month season three of Alfred Hitchcock Presents was released on DVD.”
    “Which everyone rushed out to buy.”
    “Not everyone,” I say with a sniff. “But at least one person from around here did buy it..”
    “And you know that because ...?”
    “Two of my downtown billboards now say ‘Vote for Martha Mason Vandergeld, movie star.’”
    Jaws tense, Dr. O’Dell stares at me for a moment. Then, with force, he sighs, picks up my file, sticks it in the desk drawer, and huffs himself to his feet.
    “Wait!” I say. “What about my trial?”
    Silent, Dr. O’Dell strides to the door and yanks his sports jacket off the coat rack.
    “You’re still going to testify for me, aren’t you?” I ask, sensing something—a degree of confidence?—slide away from me. “You have to understand how upset I was. Particularly after I saw those billboards.”
    Dr. O’Dell pauses, his hand on the doorknob. “Are you saying your husband’s death wasn’t an accident?”
    “Oh, it was an accident. But everyone may not see that. Your testimony can help them understand. Even if it wasn’t an accident, I wasn’t at fault. You can let the jury know how overwhelmed I was. Dr. O’Dell, you will say that, won’t you?”
    Dr. O’Dell opens the office door. “I think I’ll say something very unusual for our times. I’ll tell the truth.” He steps into the hallway and pauses.
    “Guard,” I hear him say, “Mrs. Vandergeld and I are done.”
    The guard, a burly man in a blue uniform, strides into the office. “Time to go.”
    “Yes.” Rising, I contemplate what I now think Dr. O’Dell might say at my trial. How could he have so totally misunderstood?
    “Hey, lady,” the guard says. “We don’t have all day.”
    I walk out into the hallway. Behind me, I hear doors closing.

About Martha Humphreys

    Martha Humphreys began to write seriously in the 1970s, a few years before a diagnosis of MS forced her to retire from her position as a Speech and English professor at Alabama A&M University. She continued to write while teaching part-time at the University of Alabama in Huntsville for an additional four years. Since retiring from both, she has written full-time and achieved some success. Three YA novels were published and translated into several languages. (She was then represented by Kidde, Hoyt and Picard Literary Agency, which is now out of business.) She has had twenty-four productions of plays, including full productions and staged readings. Several other plays have won or placed in national contests. Early in her career she sold articles and stories to confession, travel and religious magazines. Specifics about all areas are available on request.

Intersection

    Paul’s head swam, his eyes burning from the dust. Disorientated, he touched his head, his hands coming away sticky, as if coated in glue. When he saw the blood coating them, he screamed. Then he remembered. The bright lights. The Mack truck. Suddenly he glanced around, still aware of imminent danger, but found himself alone, lying on the ground without another soul in sight. Suddenly, a new fear knotted in Paul’s stomach. Why hasn’t someone come to help me? he wondered, shaking his head, trying to make sense of things. His muscles ached, screaming in protest as he tried to rise.
    The town around him seemed deserted, a ghost town, and the absence of life was unsettling. No one really knows what makes people quit a town, just up and leave, Paul thought sullenly, reminiscing about all the towns he’d seen in his travels, places that just seemed abandoned. But no one really wants to find out To Paul, it just reeked of something bad, something sinister. What happened here?
    Blinking back dried blood from his eyelids, Paul surveyed his surroundings. Desolate would not even begin to describe it. And the semi? he thought. Where is the hell is the semi? He remembered the bright lights, and the crash. The girl... he thought, then stifled it. The Big Rig was gone now and he was alone. What he needed to find out was why. Paul took in his surroundings, the dead town seeming like stereotypical Main Street USA. It could have been any small town in America, were it not for the dark windows and stores now fallen into disrepair. Still, something about it struck a chord deep in the recesses of his memory that he just couldn’t shake. A traffic signal hung overhead, suspended from two intersecting wires, like the way they used to do it in the old days, the light faded out long ago. How the hell did I wind up here? Paul wondered. He would have sworn that he’d never set foot in this place before, but somehow it seemed oddly familiar. Shadows seemed to leer at him from windows, as darkened doors hung from their hinges in mute protest. The buildings seemed lifeless, Paul couldn’t help but feel a pervading stab of unease.
    A faint wisp flickered in the distance down the street, and Paul fixed on it. Looking closer, it appeared to be a woman, dressed in white, and she seemed to be searching for something, her hands outstretched and her eyes wide with fear. Paul averted his own eyes for a second, the vision seeming blindingly bright, and when he was finally able to turn his stare back, the woman was gone. It felt like he’d seen a ghost. And the atmosphere seemed just right for it. I must have hit my head a little too hard, he thought and checked himself over with his hands, finding a few minor scrapes and some swelling in one of his legs. Other than that, Paul figured he’d fared quite well, considering. There was a nasty gash below his hairline, but the bleeding had stopped, leaving a mass of red ooze. It could have been worse, he thought, much worse. But somehow the optimistic idea didn’t lift his spirits, the fact that he couldn’t remember what had happened frightening him in a profound way. Paul lurched as he rose, trying to keep his balance. Strained something. Probably the ankle. Paul straightened up and took a tentative step. His ankle buckled, but held. Strained, not broken.
    Paul tried to orientate himself before going on. His head still reeling, he took the time to tear some makeshift bandages from his shirt, wrapping his injured ankle for support in case he needed to run. Paul didn’t like not knowing what was going on, the notion of trauma-related amnesia coming to mind, but he was always one who liked to be prepared. Ankle wrapped, Paul found a large piece of the metal on the ground, from what he assumed had been the accident. It would make a good weapon, a cudgel, and Paul once again felt the intangible frustration that he couldn’t remember more about what had happened in the crash.
    Hobbling, Paul started forward. The night seemed absolute, few stars lighting the skyline, their absence making the darkness more enveloping. It was almost as if the night air was palpable, coating the cilia in Paul’s lungs, making his breath come short. He listened intently, trying to hear something, any sound that could lead him, but knowing deep down that he was really looking for the woman he’d seen. He felt a strange connection to her, a sense that they shared something, and that perhaps she might have some answers. He had no tangible reason to believe it, but inexpiably, at the gut level, it seemed to be right. As he listened, he was finally able to pick up something, a whisper calling softly for someone. The woman in white? he wondered, then chided himself, Stop jumping at shadows. It’s just your imagination.
    Suddenly, he found himself grateful for his makeshift weapon, feeling a sense of danger interceding. The accident...he thought and found himself wondering where the idea had come from. He couldn’t remember any accident specifically, but he knew that there had to have been one.
    Paul started walking, knowing he was getting nothing solved standing there, and it that was as good a solution as any. Waking up in this place in the middle of nowhere with no memory of how he’d gotten there had terrified him indescribably and he reasoned that the only way to make some sense of things was to get moving. Something else seemed to tug at his mind as he surveyed the seemingly abandoned town, the buildings appearing to shift ever so slightly as he watched. It wasn’t ten paces later when he realized just what it was that had nagged him. Laurel.
    This town is Laurel, he thought. Not exactly, but close. God, how long has it been since I thought of that place? Five years? Ten? He glanced about nervously, but there was nothing except for flecked paint on structures and weather-worn sidings.
    Paul knew he had to find a phone. A phone call would help him make sense of it all. He’d call a cab. Did cabs pick up in the middle of nowhere? He didn’t know, and for that matter, he wondered what would he tell them, sorry pal but I really don’t know the street address here, you’ll just have to drive down a dirt road until you hit what looks like a dead town and then look for the crazy guy waving his arms in the middle of the street. He stifled that line of thought. He needed to make a phone call to get back in touch with reality.
    Peering into doorways as he passed, Paul searched for anything moving, any sign of life. His footsteps echoed in his ears. He glanced into a tailor’s shop which sat situated next to an old-fashioned bait shop. Mannequins, like posed bodies, seemed to beckon with their static gestures, invitingly deceptive in their moth-eaten attire. A glimpse of something out of the corner of Paul’s eye caused him to turn, hoping it was the woman and not something else. He was greeted only by a vacant street. Trying to distract himself more than anything, Paul turned his attention to resuming his search for a phone booth. He already knew he wouldn’t find one. Towns like this didn’t have phone booths, and most of the businesses that even had phones were the rotary-dial type. That’s why they still had the message about phones other than touch-tones on the operator line, because of towns like these. Another intersection led him to a street as desolate as the first.
    “Where is this place?” he said aloud, his voice sounding awkward in the silent night. Deciding that one road was as good as the next, Paul turned the corner and realized one other odd thing. All along the street, and in the whole town, he’d witnessed a distinctive lack of technology, not just phones, but an absence of cars and street lights as well. In a hi-tech world where everyone seemed to be carrying a cell phone or a lap top, it was strangely suspicious. How long ago did this town die? he wondered, moving forward.
    After a few more minutes of walking, Paul finally spotted a car, the first one he’d seen the whole time since awakening. Its appearance was made even stranger still by the fact it was sitting in the middle of an intersection. Paul, however, figured he still had to try his luck, heading in the vehicle’s direction. What Paul saw as he approached made him recoil. He was still a distance away, but he could already tell something was off about the car, and his grip on the makeshift truncheon tightened. It was a late-seventies model, and Paul’s growing trepidation turned to terror as he got close enough to glance in the window, seeing the crushed-in driver’s side door and the thin filmy membrane of blood coating the clutch and steering wheel. The windshield was cracked in places, soaked in a mass of blood and what looked like fragments of metal. Paul took a step backward. There was definitely something wrong with this town, and it was more than just this. It was everything. This town looks like it gave up the will to live in the fifties and this car sticks out like a sore thumb, he thought, remarking on the vehicle’s strangely anachronistic presence.
    Another backward step and Paul saw something in the car window. He scrambled away unaware that he was actually getting closer to the reflection he’d glimpsed. Suddenly, Paul’s ankle gave, and he tumbled. The last sight he remembered as a cloud of blackness enveloped him, a sharp pain dully throbbing in the back of his head, was a face, her face, that of the ghostly woman in white. It was pretty, soothing, with flowing locks of blonde, but he could make out nothing more as his world faded away.

    A faint lapping sound brought Paul from the darkness. His eyes seemed to bulge in a skull that seemed too small, and for the second time in a short period he found himself coming to with only faint pieces of what had happened sticking in his mind. Suddenly, as his memory returned to him, Paul turned his head, looking for her, and discovered the source of the lapping sound. It was a dog, sitting obediently beside his head, tenderly licking the blood from his wound. The mutt’s appearance was strange, but Paul was just grateful to find another living being. The woman was nowhere to be found, and for some strange reason, Paul had doubts about her existence. But at least there was the dog. Paul was already beginning to feel slightly better, knowing he was no longer alone. But as he stood up woozily grabbing his weapon from where he’d dropped it, he took a look at the animal and an overwhelming sense of dread filled him. Realization struck like a lightning bolt and Paul placed the dog instantly. “Webster..Web?” The words fell from his mouth lifelessly, knowing that what he was seeing was impossible. Turning his back on the dog and all its implications, he hastened down the street, taking corners slowly at first then escalating to a full-on heedless run when he heard the dog’s footfalls behind him, running almost playfully at his heels. Paul wanted to put as much space between himself and the dog as possible, cringing at the insanity of it all. It couldn’t be Web, Paul knew, because he’d buried the dog ten years ago. Webster, nicknamed Web, had been Paul’s dog, but he’d died, and yet he was trailing Paul just the same. Terror gripped him and he felt had to get out of there in a hurry, had to get away. He took two corners quickly, afraid to look behind. A crash that sounded like thunder split the night air and made Paul jump, startling him to the point of faltering in his run. Paul swore it sounded like barking, and he dodged into a darkened alley, fearful of what may lurk there, but more afraid of having another encounter with Web, or whatever it was that looked like Web, following him. Paul dodged down one alley after another, wary of every discarded box and cracked window, each recess seeming a perfect hiding spot for an attacker. Paul’s grip on his cudgel tightened. Panic pounded in his heart and he heard more loud barking, the noises seeming to get closer, fear fueling his steps.
    Glancing behind as he fled into one alleyway, Paul crashed headlong into a chain link fence. Bouncing back, he cursed violently beneath his breath. Paul was careful not to put too much weight on his ankle, as he hopped the chest-high partition. Emerging from the alleyway, Paul couldn’t believe his eyes. Sitting before him was the car. The same dead 70’s-era car he’d encountered before. Paul tried not to think about it as the barks seemed to get farther away, man’s best friend losing the trail or giving up, and Paul wondered if he hadn’t been a little too paranoid, letting the strangeness of his surroundings play on his imagination. After all I’ve been through, I might have been over-reacting a little, he thought, feeling a little better as he did, wondering if it really was Web at all or just some dog who looked enough like him to get Paul’s already weary mind thrown into overdrive. Paul locked in on that line of thinking because it helped put his mind at ease somewhat.
    With the cudgel still gripped tightly in hand, Paul started walking, trying a different road, ignoring the strange car and its bloody interior. He turned down Maple Street and smiled a little. At least I don’t see any dogs, he thought, and blessed his mother for teaching him to be thankful for small favors.
    Paul knew he still had to find a phone. Things were out of control and he had to find a lifeline back to sanity. He passed a broken window with a remaining painted portion proclaiming ‘...iller Brother’s General’, which seemed a promising place to begin the search. The inside was a cobweb-coated veneer of dust and neglect. Canned goods that seemed to have been around since old Ike was President were still standing strong on the shelves, displaying a proud layer of rust. Fat chance of finding a working phone, he thought, knowing he still had to try. A shudder coursed through his body, his grip tightening on his makeshift weapon as he saw two mannequins in the corner, a tarp partially obscuring them, tendrils of webbing providing a gossamer shroud over them. Paul’s unease increased tenfold when he realized from the exposed portions that they were supposed to be hunters. Paul gave them a wide berth.
    Walking around the counter, the store having the old-fashioned banister type of partition that separated the customers from the help, Paul found the cash register. Just when he was about to give up his search and try somewhere else, he caught a glimpse of a phone resting on the other side of the till. Carefully, almost reverently lifting the receiver from the cradle, he placed it against his ear, praying for a live line. There was a dial tone and it was music to Paul’s ears. A broad smile split his face, and he used the rotary, with what seemed to be agonizing slowness and clumsy ineptness, but finally he was able to dial the number for help. Time seemed to slow as he heard one ring and then another. He was too excited to realize something was wrong when someone picked up but there was no response.
    “Hello?” Paul said, relief coursing through his veins. “Hello? Can you hear me?” There was no direct reply, but he could hear something, faint and far off, indistinguishable. Paul didn’t care what it was, knowing that at least it was something. “Hello, listen my name Paul Hedges. I’m stuck. I don’t know where I am or how I got here, but listen, there must have been an accident and...” There was still no answer. It sounded like people were talking, like he was listening to a phone that was off the hook. Someone was prattling on about how they’d been so close. Someone else was very upset, asking what they could do. But it was far off, impossibly distant. He figured it had to be a crossed line. “HELLO!?” Paul screamed and then cursed, trying to hold back tears as he replaced the phone in the cradle. His hopes were so high. Picking up the receiver again, Paul dropped it when he realized the line was dead.
    Spirits crushed, Paul sank away. He’d taken five steps when he heard the ringing. Glancing at the phone, knowing that things were getting stranger by the second, he shivered as he noticed that the phone wasn’t even on the hook. Still, some faint hope drew him to answer, his steps heavy and hesitant, the ringing seeming terrifying loud. Receiver in hand, Paul cautiously put it to his ear. “Hello?” His voice was a harsh whisper.
    “Paul.” The voice was unmistakable with its drawl and it all rang home when he heard it, Paul’s skin pocking with goose flesh. “Paul, is that you m’boy? So good t’hear yer voice. Now what is it yer doin’ back in my shop after all these years. I mean, it’s good ta have ya back an’ all, son, after all this time. But yer needed elsewhere...” Paul knew the voice. It was a voice from Laurel. Old Man Miller, owner of Laurel’s only General Store. That was what the sign on the broken front window had said, “Miller Brother’s General Store”. Paul’s head was reeling.
    “NO!” Paul didn’t realize he was screaming. “No that’s just not possible. This can’t be happening. You’re dead, Mr. Miller. I went to your funeral. You died when your car flipped on that road outside of town.”
    “Calm down, son, I’m just tryin’ to help ya out from this side ta git home, we’re all rooting for ya, and I gotta tell ya...” Paul slammed the receiver down cutting off the words, not knowing what was happening, just knowing that he had to get out of there, and fast. Those all-too-lifelike mannequins seemed to be stirring beneath their tarps, but Paul wasn’t sure if it was just his imagination. Not wanting to find out, Paul quickly ran out of the store, feeling an overwhelming sense of movement as he did, as if he were being herded into something. The feeling was not pleasant. A quick glance back at the store showed only shadows.
    Paul didn’t care where he was going, only knowing that he had to get away. He made a quick dodge down one street and then another, each move he made seeming strangely as if it was going along some set path, as if he were being forced in some predetermined direction, no matter which way he turned. Four more blocks, each step more hurried than the last, and Paul found himself at his destination. It was the same car, but things were different this time. He didn’t have long to register it all, things happening too fast, a sense of déjà vu striking him, only this time stronger than ever before. As he approached the car, he stopped abruptly, feeling as if he had hit an invisible wall, his muscles freezing up. Paul saw the woman in white, beautiful as she ever was, sitting in the car with tears in her eyes. The car was dead, its battery had given its last final heave, bringing the car to the center of the intersection. The woman in white seemed to be in a panic, and Paul’s heart ached to help her. Beside her in the car sat a little girl, barely more than a newborn. They’re in danger, Paul thought, instinctively knowing it was true. They both seemed panicked, and the beautiful woman was trying desperately to get her daughter free from her safety seat, refusing to leave without her. Suddenly, things became clear for Paul. What he was seeing was the accident, a memory coming into focus now and somehow transposed into reality. That was when he heard the sound of the semi truck, close now, so ominous and overwhelming that he didn’t know how he could have missed it in the first place. Paul turned and he saw the semi that was the source of the noise, barreling down on the intersection, one tire shredded and lurching out of control. It was how it had been, Paul knew. The crash. The freak accident.
    Panic gripped Paul as he watched the semi continue on a collision course with the trapped mother and daughter. An icy stab of terror sliced through Paul’s ribs as he willed his unresponsive body into motion but they would not budge and he could only watch helplessly, trapped in a state of déjà vu, as the out-of-control Big Rig sped ever closer.
    Paul willed his extremities into motion and in an instant he was at the car’s door, throwing it open as the truck drew ever closer. The sickening sense of repeating the same action over and over again filled his head, everything seeming so familiar, so wrong, as if he had tried to save this woman and her child a million times and failed a million times. The woman was still screaming as the truck leered closer. Paul pushed himself over the woman in a desperate attempt to free the daughter only to feel his bad ankle give with a sickening crunch as he went. Pain seared up his leg and the excruciating agony nearly drove him to collapse, knowing the same thing had happened countless times before and he had always succumbed. He could feel his world swimming away, and with it all hope of saving the woman and her daughter.

    “It’s just not working,” the woman said, with an obvious tremor of disappointment. “I felt like I was so close. Twice. The first time I could truly visualize me reaching out to him, and the second, well, I felt like I could touch him.” She shook her head trying to keep the tears from coming. “I was so close and he was ripped away.” She tried to look at the other people in the room, one man, another woman, her daughter and the doctor, but she found she couldn’t meet their eyes. It was as if she had let them all down.
    The doctor’s white coat was dingy with wear, and he looked tired, but despite it all trying to keep a bright outlook. “Look, what we’re attempting here is extremely experimental. You can’t expect miracle results the first time we try it, Heather.”
    Heather glanced up at him, her eyes red-rimmed. “I know that, but it just, well, when you approached us with the idea it seemed so right, like it was a sign or something. I know we’ve all prayed separately, but I thought that we could reach him if we all were together, joining our energy.”
    The doctor would not be dissuaded. “I think it will work. This patient has been under my care for weeks now and he’s fully healed, physically. It’s mentally that he’s damaged.”
    At this Heather started crying again. “And it’s all my fault,” she lamented.
    The man who’d been praying with them, reached out his hand again, placing it on Heather’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault. My brother, Paul,” he gestured to the patient lying still in the hospital bed, his body sound but his mind trapped in a coma, “was doing what anyone with a spark of humanity would do. He was trying to help you and your daughter. And he did.”
    But Heather didn’t find it that easy to be persuaded. “Yeah, and how is he repaid. He’s stuck in some kind of limbo and my daughter and I are fine.”
    At this, the doctor interrupted, impatient to try again. “Listen. Like I said before, Paul has been under my care for weeks now. His body is healed, but he can’t come back to this world because he’s trapped in his own mind, wrapped with guilt. I’m sure with the magnitude of the accident he’s tormenting himself because he thinks that he was too late, that you and your daughter died in the crash. So what we’ve got to do is convince him of the truth, that you two escaped and it was his doing that enabled it. That, I think, is the only way he’s going to be able to come out of his coma.”
    Heather burst into a new round of tears. “But that’s what we’ve been trying to do and it’s not working.”
    The doctor fixed her with a stern look. “That sounds like you’re giving up. Did Paul Hedges give up on you when he saw a Mack truck barreling down on your stalled car? No. He ran to the rescue, freeing your daughter from her car seat. And we owe it to him to keep trying to reach him. I’m almost positive that Paul is trapped in a place of limbo, a place of memory, a loop if you will. I heard Paul repeatedly say ‘Laurel’.”
    “That’s the town we grew up in,” Paul’s brother chimed in.
    “Yeah,” the doctor continued, “I checked it out after I heard him say that and found out it was where he was born. That’s when I thought about the possibilities. In a lot of cases like these, where there is severe trauma, the mind reverts back to some place where it feels safe, like some childhood memory, only, judging from what I’ve heard Paul scream during the worst of things, I think his version of memory may be tainted because he feels guilty. The truck impacted right as Heather and her daughter got free, according to Heather’s account, so Paul probably didn’t even realize he’d saved their lives. He thought he was too late. Western medicine has never been too focused on the science of the mind, but Eastern medicine has been specializing in it for centuries, and when a case like this presents itself, where someone is healed, miraculously, in body and it’s their mind that’s damaged, it’s time to turn to alternative treatment. So I read up on journals and I’ve been leading you through meditations to try to reach him. And now you’re giving up before we’ve even truly started.” Heather tried to speak up, to deny it, but the doctor continued on, fire in his eyes. “We’re going to try again right now, get our energy as focused as we can on reaching Paul, and we’re going to bring him back.” They all held hands again, believing. They sank back into their meditative state, the doctor leading them along the way as they tried, through sheer will to send their collective will toward Paul. There was no guarantee, nor even a good possibility that what they were attempting would work, but sometimes when it came down to it, all that was left was hope, and faith.

    Paul felt a strange sensation, a tingling, almost like a direction of energy infusing him with strength and purpose. He felt as if he was being prodded onward, back into consciousness, and Paul seized on that imperceptible tremor of warmth. Suddenly, the world snapped back into focus and the sense of déjà vu left him instantly. This was uncharted territory. The woman in white, Heather, was yelling something, but Paul couldn’t hear it over the sound of the thundering semi. Instinctively he knew what she was saying. Using his cudgel for leverage, Paul popped the stuck safety harness on the car seat and freed the woman’s daughter. Heather grabbed the newborn and dove to safety, avoiding the out-of-control Mack’s impact. The sound of the crash was deafening but through it all Paul could see something different, feel something different, a sense that the mother and daughter had survived, that everything was all right, and then there was nothing at all but light.

    Paul’s eyelids began flicker before finally opening, the light of the hospital room so bright. One hand came up to wipe away tears, as he was greeted, after all this time, by the sight of his brother. Heather and the doctor both had smiles on their faces. Realization set in instantly, and though Paul’s voice was weak, his words were unmistakable. “Thank you.”
    Heather smiled through her tears. “No, thank you,” she said, warmth filling everyone in the room.

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!

    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 monthly by Scars Publications and Design. Contact Janet Kuypers via e-mail (ccandd96@scars.tv) for snail-mail address 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 2011 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.