The Unreligious, Non-Family-Oriented Literary and Art Magazine
Internet ISSN 1555-1555

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In This Issue... Poetry by Eric Obame and T. Allen Culpepper and Michael Ray Monson, art by Cheryl Townsend, poetry by Michael Ceraolo, art by Nick Brazinsky, poetry by Nathan Jeffries and James Gapinski and Je’free, art by Melanie Monterey, poetry by Belle Mahoney and Steve DeMoss and Jeanna-Marie Bergman, art by Mike Hovancsek, poetry by Claire Blancett and Valorie Mall and Michael Swanson, art by Edward Michael O’Durr Supranowicz, poetry by Damion Hamilton and Suzanne Richardson Harvey, Ph.D.. Prose by Mel Waldman and Pat Dixon and Jacob Alves and A. McIntyre and Gerald E. Sheagren, art by Eric Bonholtzer, and prose by Kenneth DiMaggio. (art is sprinkled throughout the issue...)

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poetry

the passionate stuff

One Eric Obame I see Heaven The universe Spinning like a loose tire I see The hypnotic rotations of galaxies Billions of them Like fraternal twins Unique, yet the same I see The countless stars, planets and moons The quasars, pulsars, dwarves and so on Looping Circling Around and around I see Novas spreading light and matter Galaxies blending Scattering Comets and asteroids circling, crashing into, passing or destroying Moons, planets, suns or each other I see The cosmos The super clusters The Milky Way Our Earth Spinning like the seats of a Ferris wheel I see in nurseries, the massive explosions of fireballs meeting death Giving life to black holes I see From one little blue ball in the dark ocean of space I see it all With my eyes

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STAR BOY T. Allen Culpepper Arriving at the park to play Frisbee golf, young and sexy-cute, with pierced lip, buzzed hair and still-innocent eyes, he lags a bit behind his friend to strip off his white ribbed tank and expose tattoos, inky braids on upper arms and between protruding shoulder blades, but the striking one a big red and blue star stretching from collar bone to neck. Sure he might regret it one of these days when he’s looking for a better job in his twenties or thirties or when his skin grows old and he’s mowing the lawn on a day so hot he has to lose his shirt, but now at seventeen it looks damn fine as he raises his arms to stretch. So fine in fact that a cyclist passing by, shirt off, nipples ringed, hormones raging, obsessed on sight, slows, circles back, once and then again, comes alongside, thinks, “I want to stick my tongue in all the good places,” but actually says, “The star tat’s cool, where’d ya get it?” Hoping his eyes will convey the rest. Star Boy, shy and obviously straight, looks down, says, “Arkansas, thanks, now I gotta try to find my disc” and wanders off to catch his friend. The cyclist, jilted, feeling sad in the British sense, circles slowly, pedals on, crossing the trail and one more pick-up line off his list.

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Calculations Michael Ray Monson Layers unravel the cactus Calculating this camouflage Cancerous choices Captivating carnage in the air Casualties that stream Left in a catatonic state Finding a cause to it all Seeking the center Locked in a chamber in chains Chasing a dream Choking in circles Waking again to cite the words Claiming the truth Classical concoctions Clawing at your throat Cleaving your head Counter-clockwise in the clouds Cobras that corrupt Cold hearts collide Concealed intentions Condemned conflict Constructing ways to consume Contaminating all that surrounds Contracts created in order to control Coordinating what is considered correct Counting seconds, In this current Cut through Then cut off

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Child1, art by Cheryl Townsend

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Excerpt from Thoreau’s Walden: Twenty-First Century Edition Michael Ceraolo The mass of humanity lead lives of exceedingly noisy desperation

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art by Nick Brazinsky

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Hunger Nathan Jeffries I stand behind the counter where young girls come escorting the stink of the last Downtown Express Bus from Broadway to Golden They come together: always together One wearing the Pink tank top given by her mother to showcase the walnut shells growing in front of her pair of blonde tinted armpits The other a battered gray ARMY sweatshirt hiding the swollen questions of why Daddy won’t hug or kiss or tuck her in late at night anymore And always behind them the boy twelve and forgettable his tiny round face a painting of red razor bites left from weeding out the last flakes of bleach that made up his 5 o’clock shadow Always behind so that his sweaty transfixed gaze could molest every inch of the blonde’s figure And then turn to the other and say “Why won’t you wear anything but that ugly fucking sweatshirt.”

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Denied James Gapinski Protecting life seems to go only so far: a fetus, a stem cell, or any Caucasian son. The rest are all allowed to die according to the man with God’s words in his mouth. What of love thy enemy? (Denied). Charon tugs bodies from the honey wagons into his vessel wading in Acheron, undoubtedly canalled from Lethe. And we all forget the faces, the names, and anything other than what the lip service and the Service decree. The bodies stacked high, nostrils flared to catch the repugnant odor. But only a flowery potpourri exists, followed by a static haze. The crack of the rifle. (Denied). [“Denied” was previously published electronically at http://www.poetsagainstthewar.org/]

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Power Hungry Je’free TV is on; I turn the sound down to hear my hunger... I wish I was a ghost, not needing keys to move around freely, and not feeling like a dragonfly in a jar; For then, I could speed through four-lane highways, not worrying if I should miss the bus I wish I was a pro shadow-boxer, equipped to face the worst thieves, voyeurs, eavesdroppers, even telephone screamers; For then, I would be valued, and not be looked upon with sleaze, like a number on a bathroom wall I wish I had the gift of prophesy, and be way advanced than tomorrow’s monsters

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Body 23, art by Melanie Monterey

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ALL IN A DAY’S DESTRUCTION Belle Mahoney lit cigarette dry kiss long morning cry sink of dirty silverware bottle of rum in a knit sock squeezed behind the bed board no one will find it no one will try dusty apartment wait out the shaky night three dirty glasses story to tell next year

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A poem about the morning Steve DeMoss I put two slices of bread in the toaster. Nature is calling so I let the dog out to go Watching through the kitchen window Her small paws tracing on the frozen clumps of bark in the yard. I wait for my breakfast, the red coils Illuminating, pretending to be branding irons for a few moments. It is morning and nothing creates a more optimistic view of the day Than Lucy, my brown short haired, perky black wet nosed Chihuahua Climbing up my legs as if they were trees and she a monkey. She asks only for a kernel of attention, Maybe even a kiss on her soft little head, Unlike the world, which today will ask much more of me Than a rub on the belly or a scratch behind the ear.

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When Her Eyes Are Green Jeanna-Marie Bergman The misty olive colored water has reflections Its raining And the reflections are muddled with rings Rings that spiral out and out Not quite reaching me My hand Where is sit on the wooden bench Under my umbrella spattered with pink flowers and rain Drops that fall and roll and stay just on the edge Until another pushes it aside Like tears Hanging on at my chin until another Rolls down and screams until the first one falls Like the ripple effect Reflected in the misty olive colored water The same color as my eyes On certain days Like today, I know they are not gray today, not blue I tuck my legs in under me but my toes still feel the rain Cold soft rain Splattering through sandals Its starting to pound the umbrella harder But the dogwood flowers just smile and wave My toes are taking a beating now I can barely see the water down the hill, the lake of Misty olive colored water Is hidden from view And the rain It pours down All around Like the tears that stain my shirt and make me shiver Dark circles, perfect circles spreading out Touching each other, holding hands Remind me of the ripples, the rings down in the lake Not quite reaching me My hand Its raining And I can hear the song its singing Down there in the misty olive colored water

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Meditation On Summer, art by Mike Hovancsek

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Summers Dripping in Fluorescent Pink Claire Blancett I remember times with my sister who I pick berries with every summer Juices dripping down her cheeks, as she chews Mom said we eat like the bright red hummers. Bright red rubber boots keep the thorns away Who can fill their bucket first, it’s a race By the end she’s always masked in Band-Aids While I have nothing but a sticky face We comb the beach for seashells still intact Quietly to not wake the sandollars On the sand she sees something small and black Its spikes sharp as she painfully hollers. Each summer we lived in our bathing suits Fluorescent pink queens dancing down the beach

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A Matter of Survival Valorie Mall O my people, Our land was conceived in the putrid smoke of tall, brick chimneys. It developed in the womb of a devastated world. The labor began as thousands searched for homes where they no longer existed. Our land was born as the world gave us a corner of earth, knowing sad, haunted people had no where else to go. The desert bloomed under willing hands, creating their own destiny. But never have we known a moment’s peace. Locked in conflict with those who should be brothers. Understanding the sorrowful truth so hard to comprehend. Our land must exist if we are to survive.

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Newt Gingrich Michael Swanson Newt Gingrich is resurrecting the Whig Party, with Mephisto-shoed troubadours & blustery red white blue tapestries; dragon-tailed & sparkling clean with elbow-bent arm posing for thin red lip portraiture, G.W. style puffing up his white white wig, polishing brass buttons & working on his Napoleonic foot-grace meanwhile I have lost my free therapy, with Katherine Lanpher’s voice fading from my airwaves & I can only sniff hard at my pumpkin spice latte to try & clear my head

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Goals, art by Edward Michael O’Durr Supranowicz

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Good Guys Damion Hamilton Not all people are vain and stupid Even though most of the time It seems that way to me Occasionally someone will surprise me With their decency and grace Standing in line at a McDonald’s A guy starts to walk towards me And heavy sweat is falling from his brow He smiles, and tells me about the Yard work he is doing this afternoon on An unusually muggy spring day And normally I would be incurably bored Listening to someone talk about mowing their lawn But the guy has a charming way of speaking, Much like a preacher, so I can’t help but to listen To him And he goes on and on about his lawn, And about what kind of weed killer to use, What time one should cut their grass, and how often One should cut it But I am not bored, as I think about what H.L. Mencken said, “There are no boring subjects, just boring writers.” And once again Mencken rings true for me He’s friendly and waves to everyone coming into The store; his eyes are guileless, which Is rare in children and adults I listen to him, rarely saying anything, just nodding My head; talking would ruin Listening to the man speak And I wouldn’t want to do that÷ He would make a good drinking partner at a bar, Even though he is about twenty years my senior But I like the guy, meeting him briefly In this quick moving place

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Screaming From What’s Concealed, art by Aaron Wilder

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A CRACK IN THE PLAIN Suzanne Richardson Harvey, Ph.D. A half century ago I planted my hand On the breast of Oklahoma I rooted it there in the Great Plain The soil was black as bitumen But the fistful I seized was dusted With globes of dew Yesterday I set the fingers on the clock Forward and spread my hand across its face There I tracked those cracks Lacing the dusty clay Announcing the waning of my cycle Messengers from a dry season.

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prose

the meat and potatoes stuff

UNION SQUARE PARK Mel Waldman Sometimes I sit in Union Square Park and study the college kids, but my mind drifts off to the past-an imaginary past called the ‘good old days’ which never existed-merely illusory collections of false memories and desperate reconstructions, and when I continue on this private journey, I seem to reach a fork in the road and always, I take the dark road so that eventually I recall the worst moments-days-years of my life, and these recollections compel me to retreat deeper into self-reflection and I am lost in a counterclockwise labyrinth of unbearable pain. But that’s not the worst of it. I sit in Union Square Park and remember when I couldn’t be here. But now it’s safe, I suppose, with the muggers, junkies, dealers, and other criminal types gone. (Still, you never know about terrorists. They could be anywhere. And who knows what bodies they inhabit? Remember, you can’t go by appearances. Evil’s everywhere. Just look closely.) It’s a dog day afternoon. The sun’s blazing and I’m getting a fine tan. And once again, I drift off to the chimerical past and future, almost in a hypnotic trance. From time to time, I come out of my self-induced spell and study the people in the park. I check them out, and speculate who might be a terrorist, an old fashioned criminal, or a psycho freak. And then I disappear in reverie. In the distance, I see a familiar stranger. I don’t recognize him. Yet suddenly, I sweat profusely and am assaulted by a loud, violent noise that covers my head and face and chest. I cry out but no one hears me. My head whirls around in anguish and unreality and I suspect I will faint any moment. The primitive noise is amplified, crushing my skull and chest, for it is my naked heart beating almost at the speed of light, it seems, rushing toward a cliff and then deep into an abyss. A bout of vertigo grips me and I fall into the darkness. I forget who or where I am. Yet I know that I do not exist except as an object of his evil perception. Trapped inside his dark visions, I shrink into an alien ball of despair. No matter where I hide, he finds me inside this womb of darkness. Before he grabs me, I smell his foul breath. The giant reeks of evil. I smell his scorching hot Scotch exhaled and launched from the twisted mouth of a soulless man. He grabs the other. But he never catches me. He beats the other. I am numb. From a distant place, I hear the boy’s shrieks. His pain is intolerable. He does not understand. Nor do I. What occurs next is so perverse and evil, it is buried deep inside the other. The memory must never rise to the surface of consciousness. The truth must never be revealed to him or me. The giant leaves the boy behind, contaminated by unnatural scents and alien perceptions. I keep him company. Later, the woman arrives, after the heinous crimes have been committed, opens the locked door, and sets him free. Yet he will never be free. Still, she cleans him up and nurses him back to health. And magically, she fills him up with hope and helps him forget. They laugh together. He is transformed into a true-blue hope-addict. Born again, he rises from his little coffin. He loves his foster mother, his Savior. Wishes she was his real mother who died when he was born. But she’s not flesh and blood, nor is her husband. And he never knew his real father or what happened to him. But now, for a short while, he’s happy, especially when she kisses him on his forehead and reveals her eternal love for him. He believes. (I do not. I am far away.) It happens again and again. The giant returns. Reeking of Scotch, he commits heinous acts, fueled by a fierce unnatural heat. He violates the other, destroying his body, mind, and soul. (I watch silently.) And always, the woman arrives too late, shooting false hope into the boy’s veins. And nothing more. Momentarily, I open my eyes and gaze at the others. It’s a fine day for suicide or homicide. The heat is fierce. If you choose the latter, you can claim temporary insanity due to heat exhaustion. My eyes roll across the grass like a big red-white-and-blue ball-punctured and slowly losing air, sluggishly seeking truth and revelation but running out of time. Sweat drips down my brows. Nearby, the college kids lie on the grass, or play ball or reinvent the art of seduction, oblivious of the overpowering heat. In the distance, mothers sit in the shade with their babies and toddlers, in the children’s park, glowing triumphantly with infinite expectations. Suddenly, I choose my fate, or do I? The heat permeates my skin and then my being, burning a hole in my brain. Still, instinctually a decision is made which indirectly affects the destiny of the people around me. From within my scorched brain, a soft distant voice tells me there will be no physical violence today. No flesh will be hurt. Good will triumph over evil at this seething intersection of the space-time continuum. And I simply vanish again, finding comfort in a cool inner space, blocking out the potential violence and heat, forgetting. Life is good. I explore a beautiful interior landscape. I’m addicted to hope even though my dreams don’t come true. So far, that’s the worst of it, with all its ramifications, and my flagrant weakness. Yet maybe in some remote way, it’s a strength too, or even an antidote. You see, I’m a high-flying hope-addict. And when I fly high, on my personal rollercoaster, recalling magnificent days that never were or imagining a magical future that will change my life, I explode and blast off to a faraway galaxy and there’s this glorious rush and it’s like I’m alive for the very first time, and I never want this feeling to go away, so I recharge my brain with visions of splendor and fly higher and higher, until I’m blissed out on endorphins, electrified with adrenalin overload and absolutely smashed on other esoteric-psychedelic-mystical stuff my enlightened body is spontaneously producing and now for sure, I’m ready to conquer the world, talk to God, and advise Him on the state of the universe and Jesus Christ, He’s got a lot of explaining to do, when suddenly, in all my glory and power, my heart starts beating faster and faster, rushing away from me, and I can’t keep up with it nor catch my breath, even though I’m obviously much stronger than Superman and maybe equal to God, and I think I’m gonna die but I don’t and in one horrific nanosecond, I crash! I crash! I fall far toward earth, from outer space and unknown galaxies, and rush across alien universes, approaching earth but apparently intersected by a gaping black hole of despair which devours me, crushing my spirit, and an ancient voice assaults me, shrieking primitive commands of violence. But only for a short while. I’m a hope-addict! Got a large empty coffin-Union Square Park- full of hope. I lie in my golden coffin under the sun’s glorious canopy and know that Jesus Christ shall rise again. Hallelujah! Amen! God is good! And I believe! Yes, I believe! Oh, Jesus, I feel it and I believe!

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Stranger Interlude in Hardware Pat Dixon “Hey! Young man! Put that driller back! That’s my driller—mine!” Eva Sobeski could not believe her eyes. The nerve of some people! She reached out her hands to take back the rechargable electric drill she had just a moment ago put into her red-plastic shopping basket. “I don’t see no receipt in your hand, lady!” said the balding young man, laughing at his own wit as he jerked the drill away and put it into his shopping cart. “‘Sides, you just set it down!” Eva felt her throat tighten and her breathing become difficult. She darted her eyes rapidly in fourteen different directions, hoping that a clerk or stock boy or someone had seen what this heap of infamy had just done to her. No one near or far met her glances. She reached towards the young man’s cart. “Give it back! It was in my basket—you should get your own. Ask a stock boy or somebody if they—ask them to get you your own from the stock room!” The young man interposed his bulk between Eva and his cart. He was only three inches taller than she was but weighed at least twice what she did. He snickered as she was unable to get past him, and then he began pushing her backwards with the heels of his plump hands. “Get your own, ol’ lady,” he laughed. “Maybe they got another left, maybe not. With this kind o’ sale it’s ev’ry man for hisself!” Push. “Maybe nex’ year they’ll have ’em marked down ag’in.” Push. “An’ maybe nex’ year you’ll get lucky.” “You just keep your fat paws off me—sonny!” she said, tears of frustration starting to form in the corners of her eyes. She had needed that drill—and now where was all this going? What had she gotten herself into? One of the plump pale hands gave her a final shove. The other plump hand was held back by its wrist. Eva and the balding young man both stared for several seconds at the large tanned hand that gripped the fat pale wrist. Then they both looked up at its owner. “Hi, Ma!” said a tall young man. “Have you been bothering this little guy?” Eva’s jaw dropped as she looked up at the sparkling blue eyes and broad grin of the tan young man. Dimly, she was aware that the plump man was attempting to free his wrist from the other’s grip, but did not dare antagonize him by trying too hard. Then the plump young man let out a squeal. Two large, tanned hands gripped his soft, round shoulders, and a new voice, behind him, said, “Kevin, is Ma getting in trouble again? What’s she up to this time?” Kevin, with his right hand still clamped on the pale wrist, said, “Yo, Brian, I think she was tryin’ t’ get somethin’ from this guy’s cart. Fess up, Ma—is that what you was tryin’ t’ do?” Eva caught her breath. She wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands and began to chuckle. “Kevin? Brian? There was—there was this little—little misunderstanding here. This young man here thought that I didn’t want the ‘lectric driller I’d put into my basket. It was the last one they had—and I do want it.” Kevin faced the plump young man. “Our Mum thinks it’s her ‘driller,’ sir. Brian and me, we’d like to hear your side o’ the story—before renderin’ any judgment, o’ course. Both bein’ fair men, o’ course. Brian, come around front where the gentleman can see you.” Brian did so. Kevin was six foot three, and Brian was two inches taller. Both were quite fit, and looked it. “Sir,” said Brian with a relaxed grin, “us and our Mum would be appreciatin’ it if you would honor us wit’ your own side o’ these do-in’s—if y’ please.” The plump man attempted to speak, cleared his throat, and tried again. “I—I guess—.” His voice broke and he coughed a couple times to try and clear it. “I guess I—misunderstood what your mom—I thought it was a basket some—somebody had just left on the counter—it’s her drill if she wants it. My mistake—and I’m really very sorry—ma’am.” “Well, then,” said Kevin, beaming and releasing the pale wrist. “Ain’t it jus’ won’erful, Ma, when people can come t’gether an’ settle their little diff’rences like this? What a nice young man this is, with his nice way of apologizin’ t’ y’.” “I’ll just lift Ma’s little ‘driller’ out o’ y’r cart, sir,” said Brian with a friendly smile. “Are y’ almos’ done, Ma, or do y’ want t’ do a bit more o’ the ol’ shoppin’?” said Kevin, picking up Eva’s red basket. “I just want that orange extension cord, there. Then I’m ready to go to the checkout,” said Eva. “No—Brian—the twenty-five-foot one. That’s it.” As the pale young man scuttled down an aisle with his cart, Kevin called after him, “Thank you, sir! You’re a real gentleman! An’ our Mum thanks y’, too!” As the three of them walked slowly towards the checkout counter, Eva dabbed her eyes with a small linen handkerchief. “Thank you—men. How can I ever—thank you enough? That man—he—he was—. Are your real names Kevin and Brian?” “We are, ma’am—though we ain’t really brothers in the strictest meanin’ o’ the term,” said Brian. “Some o’ the people that come t’ the Saint Patty’s Parade in the city calls us ‘the brothers’ when we march by wit’ our drummers an’ pipers—an’ that’s as it should be. So, Brian lad, how can our Mum thank us?” He looked at Brian questioningly as he set Eva’s shopping basket down on the black conveyor belt of the checkout. “Maybe by not hangin’ up ’er phone when next we have our firemen’s pledge drive?” Brian said. “No! No, y’ silly little mercen’ry basta’d! Tell that t’ strangers! No! Jus’ by comin’ t’ the P’rade next March 17th an’ wavin’ a’ us an’ callin’ out both our Christian names as we go marchin’ by! W’u’d that be all right wit’ you—Ma?”

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Discovering a Long Lost Friend I Never Had Jacob Alves “You don’t show enough affection.” They all had said to me. How am I supposed to show my affection towards some one who can’t keep my interest for longer then two weeks I thought to my self, but I’d reply with a lie in order to keep the comforting feeling of kissing some one good bye and good night. “Why are you such an ass hole?” One would say. Why do you always get overly excited every time a boy you know passes by? I’d think to my self but I’d just apologize. “Why are you always so quiet, why don’t you ever talk to me?” another would say. Maybe it’s because you’re always on your fucking phone. I thought to my self, but I simply replied, “I don’t know.” I’ve been home for three weeks and I found a girl that’s caught my interest the whole time I’ve been here. I’ll be saying good-bye later today.

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SNIPER A. McIntyre Sergeant Virkov sat in the front of the truck. Legionnaire Stacy drove. In the back, I sat with Donnell, Jrovnic, and Clothard. No one spoke, partly because of the noise of the engine. The barracks receded into the distance as we sped through the city, then the outskirts. Two police cars joined us as we reached the countryside, the ragged Midi, baking dry in the summer heat. Sweat rolled down my brow into my eyes. I squinted against the glare. Jrovnic grinned, Hot? I smiled. He gestured at the police cars behind us. Jrovnic, with his experience in Bosnia. Why can’t they do it themselves, fucking amateurs? Fucking cops. What’re they for? We ought to take them out. It was once my pleasure. Save your energy, I said, Don’t bother. We’ll get this done and go home to dinner. Jrovnic laughed, Domestic. So domestic. I ought to make you my wife. I did not bother to comment. Clothard and Donnell stared at nothing, hearing nothing, as always. They hardly ever spoke. Only God knew where they came from. They were someone’s sons, years ago, somewhere. Hard to imagine them as kids, running around at school laughing. Jrovnic lit a cigarette, smoking in silence, staring at the cops in the car behind us. Ash settled on his dark green fatigues before blowing away. Behind the windshield, two beefy faces stared back. Sergeant Virkov found us before lunch. He said we were going for a picnic. With rifles. The rifles had telescopic sights. We carried live ammunition. An exercise, we thought, An exercise. But by the truck he told us what was going on. Some creep had taken tourists hostage, in the countryside, about ten miles outside Marseilles. We would sort it out. Why can’t the cops do it? Jrovnic asked, That’s what they’re paid for. Because they asked us to do it, Sergeant Virkov answered, And they’re incapable, you know that. What about my lunch? continued Jrovnic. Sergeant Virkov ignored him, and Jrovnic knew better than to repeat the question. Sergeant Virkov was all right, he was fair. He was a good NCO. Fifteen years service. But he was short tempered. He might say that Jrovnic needed to diet, and Jrovnic knew he would not eat for a couple of days. And Sergeant Virkov seemed unusually tense. It was best to leave him alone. We drove on, and I was glad Jrovnic kept quiet. I didn’t like it. Something was up. Why were they sending us ten miles out into the maquis just for some jerk taking tourists hostage? It didn’t make sense. And why four snipers? The best marksmen in the regiment. We might be going into a big fight. But Sergeant Virkov knew what he was doing. He had been at Kolwezi. If he needed something else he would have brought it. Still, I was nervous. Not afraid, but nervous. I wanted it to go right, whatever it was, like all those years ago at school before a rugby match. A tension in the pit of the stomach, butterflies they called it. I’d felt the same way before a music exam. I didn’t want to let the side down. If I was afraid, it was a fear of messing up in some way that might get someone killed, or at best make us look like fools in front of the gendarmes. That was inexcusable. I glanced at the police car. The two cops never changed their expression. They were dumb clots, the gendarmes, good for nothing other than cracking Arab skulls, looking tough, and fucking dumb women. Normally we were enemies, but here we were, driving together through the baking heat to something we didn’t know. Jrovnic grinned, Thinking? Maybe, I replied, If you could call it that. The truck began to slow. Clothard and Donnell checked their weapons, even though they knew they were ready. We’ve arrived, muttered Donnell. The police cars passed us. Jrovnic spat, There they go, the bastards. Now they’ll find they didn’t need us and we’ll have wasted our time, and missed lunch. Let’s see, I said, I don’t think so, something’s up. Stacy stopped. Sergeant Virkov leaned round. Ok, out, he ordered, You’re all ready. Looking forward to it, said Clothard. Everyone stared because he had spoken. Beyond, at a turn in the road, I could see the gendarmes, four of them, kneeling behind a car. Look at them, said Jrovnic, Young ladies. Shut it, hissed Sergeant Virkov, From now on no one speaks except me. You say one more thing Jrovnic, you’re on a charge. One cop had a megaphone. Pistol in hand, he began to shout the usual, Put down your weapons and surrender, we have you surrounded. I repeat, we have you surrounded, you cannot escape. It sounded ridiculous, like out of a movie. Incoherent screaming beyond the fork in the road, then shouting in accented French, a German by the sound of it. Obscenities. The voice vaguely familiar. But it was a long way off. Sergeant Virkov motioned for us to follow. We reached the cars. The cop repeated his message. This time the reply was a gunshot, then four more. The slugs slammed into the car. Everyone lay in the dust. The heat seemed to intensify. Burning heat and dust. I tried to swallow. A woman’s voice talking over the radio about a traffic jam near the Old Port. This one’s for you, said a cop, You get on with it. Sergeant Virkov motioned for me to follow. He crawled to the edge of the car, peered round the bumper and, like a sprinter at the beginning of a race, he briefly knelt before launching himself into the undergrowth. I did the same, slower because I was lugging the rifle. Clothard and Donnell lay at either end of the car, squinting down the rifles. Stacy remained by the truck. Sergeant Virkov whistled, and Jrovnic squirmed through the dust to the other car abandoned by the cops. The cop with the megaphone spoke again. More incoherent screaming, one of the tourists yelling for mercy, a woman, the sound cut off by a dull thump. More gunshots, bullets shattering the windshield. Whoever it was knew how to shoot. I followed Sergeant Virkov into the trees. He knew exactly where to go. I thought about Kolwezi. Lying in the fragrant leaves, in the dappled light, we could see the hostages. Above us a bird, shrill, monotonous, repeating hee hee hee hee. An ugly woman lay unconscious by a Renault. Inside, two children sat staring ahead as if they were watching TV. A man sat hunched in the driver’s seat, sweating, pale with fear. The father. I saw the gunman kneeling behind the car, no shirt, lean like a cyclist, very fit. His arms tanned, white at the shoulders where he had been wearing short sleeves. A laborer maybe. You’ve got him, murmured Sergeant Virkov, One shot, he’s yours. I leveled the rifle, arranging the sights, squinting into the lens. The view blurred, then came into focus. My heart jumped. Broken nose, scar, he’d shaved his head. It was Mueller. Legionnaire Mueller. It’s Mueller, I whispered to Sergeant Virkov. I know, he replied, Take him out. When you get a chance. Don’t hesitate. Mueller. I joined with Mueller. We were in all the trials, basic training, the farm. Out of twenty others, it was just Mueller and me. He was a good man, Mueller. He helped me through some serious shit, I helped him. He never mentioned why he joined. Then again no one talked. It was part of the tradition. Almost a joke. Mueller. One night, he and I fought some paras, pussy career paras in it for the pension, and then we all fought the police. After he insulted the barman’s wife. He was a crazy bastard, he could do fifty pull-ups with his knees at ninety degrees. He never got tired, Sergeant Virkov said he was the best recruit he’d ever seen, and we should all try to be like Mueller. Now Mueller was going to die over some stupid fucking tourists. I wanted to shout, Mueller, it’s me, put the gun down. But I knew it was no use. Even if he gave up, he was looking at serious time, and he wasn’t the type to do that. He was going to go out the way he wanted. I wondered if he knew who we were. Clothard, Jrovnic, Donnell, Stacy, Sergeant Virkov, we were the same company. But he had deserted. He wasn’t one of us any more. One day he wasn’t there, a gun was missing, and they were looking for him. We were all interrogated. Why had he gone? How did he get the gun? No one knew. He just disappeared. That was two months ago. And here he was. He looked the same. I wondered what he had been doing. He’d made few friends, if the tourists were anything to go by. Fucking worthless tourists always getting into trouble. I wondered if the others knew who it was. Sergeant Virkov interrupted my thoughts, What’re you waiting for? Shoot. I observed through the sights. Mueller was leaning against the car, concentrating in the heat. He looked like he hadn’t been eating. He was pale. I could see the sweat rolling down his face. His ribs. The corrugated muscles of his stomach. He was carrying a large service pistol, the one he had stolen. The cross hairs split his gaunt face into four neat mathematical sections. Hitherto, I had only fired at a target, sometimes water melons to emulate blood. I knew what an exploding bullet could do. I could hear the cop shouting again over the megaphone like a ritual. Last rites, a prayer. Frowning, Mueller raised the pistol to fire. Momentarily, his head evaded the cross hairs. I adjusted quickly. He was framed again. Now. I squeezed the trigger, feeling the jolt, the brief crack of the discharge like a fire work. I adjusted again, watching, knowing I hit him. A sitting duck. Mueller continued to kneel, the gun in his hand. For a moment, terrified about what Sergeant Virkov would do, I thought I had missed. I could see no wound. Time stopped. Then, with a strange smile, Mueller wheeled about, falling back away from the car. Slow motion. As he turned, I noticed that one side of his cranium was missing, completely gone. Now I saw the result, spattered over the side of the Renault. He slumped into the dust. Through the sights, reality speeding up, the cops raced for a shot, trying to get in on the show. Too late. They knew it was over. A farce. Sergeant Virkov patted me on the back. Nice work, he said, Very clean, well done. He stood up brushing off dust. Everyone was standing around waiting. A cop was calling for an ambulance. Mueller did not have the dignity of returning to the barracks. He was no longer one of us. He would go to one of the state funeral houses. No one would claim him. He would be buried in a community grave. Stacy touched my shoulder, handing me a lighted cigarette. I thanked him, smoking it slowly, hoping Jrovnic would leave me alone.

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Uncle Alf Gerald E. Sheagren It was just before quitting time when I was summoned to the sanctum sanctorum of Woodrow Pierce, the managing editor of the Richmond Times-Dispatch. Such invites were rare, so I knew that this was either very good news or exceptionally bad news. I rapped on the frosted-glass door and adjusted my tie, his gravelly voice bidding me to enter. Pierce was enthroned behind his huge mahogany desk, shuffling through a stack of paperwork. Behind him was a ten-by-ten window that had the most breathtaking view of the capitol city. The governor should have been so lucky. “W.P.” as we called him, was a short, balding man with a penchant for Cuban cigars and these humongous, multi-colored bowties that never failed to remind me of one butterfly or another. The yellow-and-black jobber that he was sporting, today, looked very much like the state insect – the majestic Tiger Swallowtail. He regarded me for a few moments like a king would a serf and waved me toward a leather chair near his desk. “How went the day, Witherspoon?” “Uh — you know — the usual.” He cocked a bushy brow, his cigar spewing smoke like a steel mill’s chimney. “And what — pray tell — is considered ‘the usual’?” “You know; a lot of hard and diligent work — more so with the terrible developments in Korea.” W.P.’s stubby fingers drummed an annoyed cadence on his desk. “Goddamn those Chinese! I certainly hope that MacArthur teaches them a lesson they won’t soon forget.” I shifted uncomfortably in the chair, its leather creaking beneath my weight. “Briggs is with the Eighth-Army, isn’t he, sir?” I thought of poor Dwight who I had often paired up with on assignments. I could picture the little guy — armed with only a pad, pencil and camera —shivering and scared shitless as hordes of screaming Chinese bore down on him from all directions. Hell, he might already be dead and frozen as stiff as a board. “Yes, he is. And here we are, all safe and comfy, without a clue as to what he might be going through.” And puffing on Cuban c-gars and wearing bowties as big as Godzilla the Butterfly, I thought to myself, hardly able to contain my amusement. “Is something funny, Witherspoon?’ “No, not at all, sir. What could be funny at a time like this?” W.P. picked up a piece of paper and began to crumple it slowly and methodically in his hand. “I have a good human interest story for you. I want you to start on it first thing in the morning. I’ll allot some money out of the kitty to pay for two day’s worth of lodging and food.” “Uh — a human interest story?” “Did I stutter?” “No, sir, you didn’t.” “There’s a Civil War vet living in the Allegany Mountains, a few miles west of Clifton Forge, just outside of a little hole-in-the wall town called ‘Snap Pea’. He resides in an old cabin damn near in West Virginia — without indoor plumbing or any other modern convenience.” I knew what was coming, my fingernails biting into the leather of the chair. “His name is Alfred Singleton. The old bugger is one-hundred and five years old. There’s not many of his breed left — you can count them on your fingers. And from what I’ve heard; he’s in excellent physical condition with a mind as sharp as a tack.” “What does this Singleton character have to do with me?” W.P. glared, eyes narrowing, his digits beating a drum-roll atop his desk. “For one of my most prized reporters, you sure can ask some dumb questions. What do you think he has to do with you?” “You want me to interview the man — he’s my human interest piece.” I wiggled in the chair, palms sweaty, heart thumping. “I don’t know, sir; I think I would be better off, and you too, if I concentrated my efforts on what’s going on in Korea. You know; our Eighth and Tenth Army, fighting inch-by-bloody-inch to extricate themselves from the Frozen Chosin.” “Oh?” W.P.’s eyes were shining like newly-minted dimes as he considered me over the rims of his spectacles. “Perhaps you would rather seek gainful employment at the News Leader, covering cooking contests and quilting bees.” “Your point is well-taken, sir. I’ll be off first thing in the morning.” “Before the cock crows; as the paperboys are still turning over in bed. And make certain that you take some interesting pictures.” “Yes, sir. I’ll head down to payroll, right now, and pick up my traveling money.” *** * *** I was up before “the cock crows”, my Studebaker slicing through the darkness as I chain-smoked Camels, plying myself with eye-opening black coffee straight from the thermos. Of all the damn luck! Why was I chosen to interview some crusty old codger while our boys were surrounded by over one-hundred-twenty thousand Chinese at the Chosin Reservoir, during the coldest Korean winter recorded in a hundred years? Why couldn’t W.P. have assigned one of the cub reporters, who wouldn’t give a rat’s ass what assignment he drew, as long as he drew something? I turned on the dome light and squinted at my map, trying to see what roads would bring me closer to Clifton Forge and the little, blink-of-an-eye town with the crazy name of “Snap Pea”. I gave a wry chuckle, wondering whether I should have brought along some bib-overalls, a corncob pipe, maybe a pair of clogging shoes. Preferably, a little shine in a mason jar. Hitting Clifton Forge at a little before ten o’clock, I covered a half dozen more miles and was soon driving down the solitary street of Snap Pea, my tires kicking up clouds of swirling yellow dust. There wasn’t much to the berg; a dozen or so houses, a general store, and a big, two-storied building that was slightly listing, called “Pritchett’s Bed and Breakfast.” There was also a Texaco station that still utilized the old “Mae West” pumps of the nineteen-twenties. I figured if I looked hard enough I’d be able to find a hitching post and a watering trough. With little other choice, I grabbed my suitcase and headed for Pritchett’s where I was welcomed by a little old woman with three teeth and as face as wrinkled as a prune. She said that her name was “Sadie” and I liked her right off — the way she cackled a laugh; her rustic, down-to-earth charm; the way she kept primping her blue-tinged hair, collected tightly into a schoolmarm’s bun. I took a room on the second floor, laid down for a quick nap and headed out to find Mister Alfred Singleton. Walking onto the front porch, I noticed an old man in a rocking chair, a straw hat pulled low over his eyes, a pipe clenched between his teeth. “How’s it going?” I inquired, plunking down in the chair next to him. He answered without looking at me. “I’ve been better, I’ve been worse.” “Nice day, isn’t it?” “I’ve seen better, I’ve seen worse.” I lighted up a Camel, blowing out a near perfect ring of smoke. “You know a fellow by the name of Alfred Singleton?” “I’ve known better men, I’ve known worse.” I fell silent for a long moment, wondering how to proceed when he finally raised the brim of his hat, arching a bushy brow. “What’s your interest in ol’ Alfred?” “I’m a reporter for the Richmond Times-Dispatch, looking to do a story on him. You know; a human interest piece, probably for a Sunday edition.” The old man gave me a quick once-over. “You don’t look like a reporter to me.” “What’s a reporter look like?” “I dunno. He probably has a press card stuck in the band of his hat and carries a pad and pencil, maybe a Kodak.” “That’s a pretty fair description. I’m sorry for disappointing you, but I am a reporter and I’m here to do a story on Alfred Singleton.” “Uncle Alf,” he corrected. “That’s how he’s known in these parts.” The old man rubbed thoughtfully at his whiskers, his face turning solemn. “I’d be mighyt careful goin’ up his place. He might mistake you for a squirrel or coon and have at you with his rifle.” “He doesn’t see very well?” “Nope, and neither do I.” “You just tell me how to get to his place and I’ll worry about the consequences.” The old man shrugged. “You jus’ head out on Main Street, here, and drive west, maybe ten miles. When you come to a big rock that looks like a castle, there’ll be a path that heads straight up hill for about a mile or so. When the path ends, you’ll come to a clearing an’ Alf’s cabin will be at its far end. Uncle Alf’s too old to keep up maintenance.” The old man laughed. “Hell, he’s old enough to be my pappy.” “And how old might you be?” “There ain’t no ‘might’ about it. Next month, I’ll be eighty-three.” The old man creased his brows, thinking. “Nope; you had better make that eighty-four.” “Well, thanks for your help, Mister — uh —.” “Watson, Seymour Watson. Folks call me ‘Doc’. You know; for that Doctor Watson fella — Sherlock Holmes’s sidekick.” As I was walking off, Doc loudly cleared his throat, stopping me short. “If you wanna get on Alf’s good side, you best bring along a bag of jelly beans. He sure loves to pop jelly beans, ‘specially the black kind.” “The licorice ones?” “Yeah, the licorice ones.” “I appreciate the tip. Does the general store carry them?” “Last I heard.” I made a beeline to the general store and to the amazement of the clerk, cleaned out the entire stock of jelly beans — five pounds worth and a good third of them black. I didn’t mention who I was buying them for, but, as I was cashing out, the clerk looked up and winked, telling me to say hello to Uncle Alf from Jack and the family. I assured him that I would and he suddenly turned serious, warning me to be careful, or I might wind up with a rump full of buckshot. I had shrugged off Doc’s warning, but upon receiving yet another, I started to get a bit nervous. Where’s there’s smoke, there’s usually fire. A half hour later, I was driving along a rutted dirt road, so narrow in places that low-hanging branches were slapping my windshield and scrapping along the roof. This was God’s country and I hoped that my last confession would protect me — that is if Father O’Malley hadn’t smelled the liquor on my breath. After five miles, I started to watch for the rock, and, sure enough, it did resemble a castle, with turrets and battlements, even a drawbridge-like expansion spanning a small creek. I grabbed my Baby Brownie and a notebook, and started up the path, which turned out to be a lot steeper than I had expected. If this was the only route to Uncle Alf’s cabin, he must be in damn good shape for a hundred and five years. I was huffing and puffing and drenched with sweat, ruing all the hours spent behind my Smith-Corona and as many perched atop a bar stool. A possum scuttled from the underbrush and raised itself on its haunches, its ugly snout sniffing the air. I took a quick step back, my heart drumming a-mile-a-minute. Being a city boy, used to nothing but dogs and cats — this creature might just as well have been a twelve-foot bear. Not liking my scent, the critter turned and scurried back the way it had come. I continued on my way and eventually reached the clearing, spotting Uncle Alf’s cabin in the distance; a shanty actually, of unpainted lumber, with a rusty tin roof and sagging front porch. Smoke was curling from a small pipe atop its roof. I was heading across the clearing when I heard an ominous click that stopped me dead in my tracks. “Jus’ hold it right there, feller. One step more an’ I’ll likely send you to the Promised Land.” That’s when I saw him, nearly hidden behind an old oak. He was a short, reed-thin man with a thatch of snow-white hair and matching handlebar moustache. The skin of his face was as thin and yellowed as ancient parchment, but held not a wrinkle or liver-spot, only a glossy scar that stretched from his right eye, down across his cheekbone. He was clad in a plaid flannel shirt, baggy overalls and work boots. If I hadn’t known his age, I would have guessed eighty, maybe seventy. “Are you Uncle Alf?” “Who were you expecting — President Harry S. Truman?” He stepped out, his gnarled hands brandishing a shotgun. “What’s yer business, up here, mister?” he asked in a voice surprisingly strong and vibrant. “My name’s John Witherspoon. I’m a reporter for the Richmond Times-Dispatch.” “Well, you must’a took one heck of a wrong turn.” “Uh — My editor sent me here to do a story on you.” Uncle Alf cackled a laugh. “A reporter fella for the Nashville Banner paid a visit, maybe a year back, an’ I sent him packin’ real quick. So you think I’ll make an exception for you?” “Well, maybe, since I’m one hell of a nice guy. Plus, I brought along a little gift.” I held up the big bag of jelly beans, letting it sway between thumb and forefinger. “I hear tell that you’re fond of the black ones.” Uncle Alf limped forward, squinting and aiming his shotgun toward the ground. Snatching the bag, he opened it and peered inside, a small, hesitant smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He popped a black jelly and savored it as most people would a piece of filet mignon or a hunk of buttered lobster. “Well, now; you might have jus’ earned a little of my precious time. C’mon up to the porch.” I followed the old man, noting that he was limping along — his right leg seemingly unable to bend. As we neared the porch, a scrawny yellow dog trotted down its steps and began to circle, sniffing at the cuffs of my trousers. Round and round it went, analyzing my scent, a growl lingering deep within its chest. “Stonewall, you be good, now,” admonished Uncle Alf, shooing the mutt away with his foot. “By any chance; did you name him after Stonewall Jackson?” “No ‘chance’ about it. Exceptin’ for Gen’ral Lee, no greater man ever lived.” Uncle Alf struggled up the porch steps with his bum leg, motioning me toward an old cane chair. “Sit on down an’ make yerself comfy. What kind of story do you have in mind?” “You know; some of the battles you were in — the frightening things that you witnessed.” “Mister, the whole dang war was frightening; right from the first Bull Run clear to Appomattox. That little ol’ police action in Korea ain’t diddly-squat compared to what I went through. It’s a 4-H fair in the comparison. You sit on down. I’ll be back in a minute.” The cane chair squeaked and swayed and I though it was about to give out from under me. Old Stonewall curled up at my feet, resting his snout on his paws and cocking me a wary eye. A few minutes later, Uncle Alf returned with a beehive slouch hat perched atop his head, a big moth-eaten hole, front and center. “This here hat is the very same one that I wore for the entire war.” He plucked it off his head and poked a finger through the hole, wiggling it for effect. “A Yankee ball did this; took it clean off my noggin at Gettysburg.” “No fooling — Gettysburg?” In the blink of an eye, he produced a huge Bowie knife and threw it, the point sticking in the floorboard an inch from my shoe, its blade humming as it vibrated. “I kilt a few Yanks with that Arkansas pig-sticker.” I gulped, touching the big blade with my shoe. “That’s — uh — quite a weapon.” “Back in those days I could have plucked a hair from yer head an’ split in clean down the middle.” Then he reached out and grabbed a musket which had been leaning next to the door. “This here’s a Mississippi Rifle, U.S. model eighteen-forty-one, fifty-eight caliber. This ol’ baby gave me three good years of service.” I had to admit that a few jelly beans went a long way in loosening up a tongue. “I’d put on my uniform — homespun butternut — but it’s getting mighty worn. I keep it in an old trunk with a good supply of mothballs.” Uncle Alf plunked down in another cane chair, stretching out his bad leg. Wincing, he began to massage his knee. “Feels like rain, maybe as early as this evening.” “Uh — is that a war wound?” “Yup. From a piece of shrapnel durin’ Pickett’s Charge.” My heart took a leap. “Wow! You were in Pickett’s Charge?” “Believe me, sonny; that is something I wouldn’t fool about. I damn near made it o’er the stonewall — right alongside Gen’ral Armistead. Now, that was a terrible slaughter, I will tell you. I lost a good number of friends that day.” Uncle Alf looked away, swallowing hard with emotion. “Pickett’s Division was plum cut to pieces. He never forgave Bobby Lee for that fiasco; ol’ George held a grudge to his dying day.” “How about you; did you hold a grudge?” “No, sir, I did not. I would have followed Robert E. Lee clear through the gates of hell. A fine, honorable man; the greatest leader there ever was. He should be alive, today, to give MacArthur a few pointers.” “So after Gettysburg, you were out of commission?” Uncle Alf delved into the bag and tossed a red jelly bean into his mouth. “The hell you say. Two of my friends dragged me back to our lines an’ I rode back to Virginny in an ambulance wagon. A surgeon saved my leg ‘cause I practically had this Bowie to his throat while he was operatin’. I had a gimp, but my trigger finger an’ spirits were jus’ fine. I went through a lot more battles an’ witnessed the laying down of arms at Appomattox.” “Where did you get your facial scar?” Uncle Alf traced the scar with a forefinger. “I got this when a Yankee bullet kicked a splinter of wood from a tree.” “I’d like to hear about some of the battles in more detail.” “Well, you know; I’m sound of body an’ mind, but the ol’ memory gives me a tad of trouble. I got a diary, inside, that might be of some help.” “Jesus, a diary! That would be great — just what the doctor ordered.” “I don’t cotton much to doctors. Never go to ‘em. I eat plenty of onions — that does the trick.” “They’re pretty bad for the breath, though.” “Don’t need good breath, livin’ all by my lonesome. Stonewall don’t care none; his breath is worse than mine.” Suddenly, I heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot, followed by a metallic-like ping. Looking up, I saw a washtub that was hanging on the porch, swaying, the sunlight winking through a hole, dead in its center. In the matter of a second, I was lying flat on the floorboards, my fedora landing a few feet away. Stonewall gave a yelp, his pink tongue slavering my cheek. “Jesus, Alf! Someone just took a shot at us! Get down, get down!” He gave a long, gravelly laugh. “Ah, it’s nothing to worry about.” “It must be some nearsighted hunter, or maybe you have a real bad enemy out there, somewhere.” “It’s ol’ George Hastings. He ain’t much of a hunter, but he’s plenty nearsighted.” I peered up at Alf, still keeping low. “Who in the hell is George Hastings and why did he take a shot at you, at us?” “He’s a Civil War vet jus’ like me, who lives over in West Virginny. It ain’t that far — only a few miles. George rode with the First West Virginia Cavalry, Third Division, under Judson Kilpatrick.” Alf made a face as though he was sucking on an extra sour lemon. “West Virginny was nutin’ but a nest of Yankee sympathizers, breakin’ away from this state back in eighteen-sixty-three. Damn bunch of traitors!” “Okay, but what’s the deal? Why did he take a potshot at us?” “He’s a might younger than me; maybe a hundred and three. Every once an’ awhile, he sneaks o’er with his ol’ carbine an’ lets one loose in my direction. By the same token; I head o’er his way — now and then — an’ fire one off in his direction.” Uncle Alf laughed and slapped his good knee. “It’s jus’ a little game we play. No harm done, no harm meant.” “No harm done? What happens if one of you wounds or kills the other?” “Ah, we’re both blind as bats at a distance. We couldn’t hit a bright pink elephant doin’ the rumba. Hell, we’ve been playin’ this little game since the late thirties. I gotta admit though; it was some dumb luck him hittin’ that ol’ tub, dead center.” I shook my head in disbelief. “Next time, I’ll try to give ‘im a taste of his own medicine. But you have to promise me one thing, Whippoorwill or whatever your name is.” “It’s Witherspoon.” “Yeah, that’s right — Witherspoon. You have to promise me that you won’t write about the little game that me an’ George play. You don’t write about it or even mention it to anyone. Do you promise me that?” “Well — okay — I guess I can promise you that. But it would be a juicy addition to my story.” Uncle Alf stared at me long and hard. “If you do, I’ll make a point in comin’ to Richmond an’ takin’ a shot at you. An’ I’ll do it close enough so I won’t miss.” I talked to Uncle Alf for another hour, and took a swig of moonshine that hit my empty stomach like a flow of molten lava. Just before I left, he presented me with his diary, saying that I could return it at my convenience. I took a few pictures of him; a good many while he was either holding his Mississippi Rifle or Bowie knife, some both, always with him wearing his slouch hat. He walked me to the head of the path, and Stonewall followed me all the way to my car, running alongside and barking as I drove off. W.P. loved the pictures and went bonkers over the diary, which chronicled everything from camp life and sentry duty to the horrors of an all-out battle. My story hit the next Sunday addition and drew rave reviews from readers and critics alike. A friend of mine at the News Leader said that his managing editor wished that he had thought of the idea before us. *** * *** Four months later, W.P. summoned me to his office and broke some new that I could not believe. Uncle Alf had been found lying on his front porch with a bullet clean through his ticker. It was rumored that Stonewall had been found next to the body, whimpering, his drool soaking the old man’s shirt. A murder investigation was in progress, but, as of yet, the authorities had failed to find any meaningful clues or come up with any likely suspects. Of course, I knew immediately what had happened and who had done the dirty deed, or in the terms of this case — the accidental deed. But recalling my pledge to Uncle Alf, I chose to keep my mouth shut. What was the sense in subjecting a one-hundred-three year old man to a police interrogation? W.P. ordered me to get to the scene as quickly as possible; that it would be a great follow-up piece to my story. And, maybe, while I was there, I could do some snooping around and come up with the killer. I would go all right, but it would be out of respect and nothing more. I got to Snap Pea in time to witness a funeral procession heading straight up Main Street; a solemn yet extravagant affair that would have put an ear-to-ear smile on Alf’s face. A high school band led the way, playing “Dixie”, followed by dozens of soldiers and state dignitaries, and a convertible holding three Civil War veterans. Bringing up the rear was an old wagon pulled by two magnificent black horses and bearing Alf’s coffin, draped with a Confederate flag. Hundreds of people lined the route — silent and respectful — many waving miniature versions of both the Stars-and-Bars and the U.S flag. Leaping out of my car, I joined the long procession to the cemetery, the band switching to a jaunty Union number “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.” At the cemetery, following many eulogies and a twenty-one-gun salute, Uncle Alf’s coffin was lowered into the hole, as dozens of soldiers clicked their heels and snapped a salute. The floral arrangements were extraordinary, including one from the Governor; all big, colorful displays, shaped into everything from Alf’s old regimental colors to crossed muskets and artillery pieces! I stood there, gaping, wondering how on earth all this could have been planed and put together in such a short period of time. It was truly amazing. And, then, I noticed that one of the Civil War veterans had lingered behind; a small, stoop- shouldered man, boasting a snowy-white goatee, dressed in a dark three-piece suit with a GAR ribbon pinned to its breast pocket. For a moment, it looked as though he might collapse, but he quickly righted himself with the help of a cane. I knew exactly who he was and I badly wanted to meet him. “Mister Hastings, Mister George Hastings?” The man turned, placing a fedora atop his nearly hairless, liver-spotted head. “Yes, I’m George Hastings.” “Sir, I know that you didn’t mean it — that it was all a terrible accident.” He blinked his pale blue eyes. “I was there, maybe four months back, on Alf’s porch — when you put a bullet, dead center, through his washtub. He told me about the little game that you two played.” He wavered, placing both hands on his cane to steady himself. I couldn’t imagine this old man hiking miles through the woods to take a potshot at Alf. “Oh my — I’ll — I’ll be sent to prison.” “No, sir. No one’s going to send you to prison, not at your age, for a very unfortunate accident.” I rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. “And I won’t say a word to anyone. I promised Alf.” He tried to speak around the lump in his throat, lips quivering. “Do you think — do you think that Alf will forgive me?” “He probably already has.” I placed an arm around the old gentleman’s shoulder and started to lead him off. “Now, suppose you tell me a little bit your service with the First West Virginia Cavalry.” He brightened up quickly, managing a smile. “I served under Judson Kilpatrick. Do you know what everyone called us?” “No, sir, I don’t.” “Kill-Cavalry. You know; short for Kilpatrick and cavalry.” We walked off toward Snap Pea — George thankful for my interest, and, me, thankful for having saved him from his conscience.

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art by Eric Bonholtzer

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(exerpts of) THE DRIVE Kenneth DiMaggio Such anarchistic pedagogy, however, did little to help us find vitality and inspiration in my own streets. The neighborhood below Holy Land was stricken with architectural arthritis. The narrow streets curved and boomeranged like a twisted spine, and the tiny cheap beach front-cottage-like houses (two front window’d boxes with a pick up truck besides the porch) had shingles, TV antenna, flagpoles, and even mailboxes, gutters, and Venetian blinds that were buckled, gnarled, splintered, and spindled. Furthermore, with streets so skinny, pot holed, and lined with the debris of old carcass’d washing machines and refrigerators that never get trashed collected, you don’t need both sides lined with old Detroit battle-mobiles that are sometimes even longer than the houses. And why an American flag hung from a pole planted on the tar paper porched roof of every second house? Every guy (and these days, gal) who did not get fucked up on drugs, sent to prison or pregnant, enlisted in the Corps, (as in United States Marines). It was there on the bumper sticker of every other car: “Proud parent of a son (or daughter) in the United States Marines.” That’s what always gave me a little “stab” every time I drove through this neighborhood; that there was only one thing to be proud about: having a son or daughter who was a jarhead. Agh. Such a dreariness could sap the vandalism right out of you. And then –sharply—a bit worriedly, interrupted “What? What?” the young artist nervously asked. I shook my head. “Noth—“ I started to say, and then stopped. “Just fell into your own little black hole there,” she said. “While you were vandalizing my manuscript,” I said. “Well, it could use some ripping apart,” she defensively said back. “Ripping up, is more like it,” I said. “My new theory about art—and writing. Or maybe it’s not a theory at all. I have just discovered the beauty of painting the canvas with a switchblade.” She seriously studied me for a moment, during which she most likely considered the following possibilities: a.) I was a serial killer. b.) I was an inmate from the asylum. c.) I was an extra-terrestrial posing in the skin of a human, or, d.) all three of them. “You’re still taking me to the church that looks like Notre Dame cathedral, aren’t you?” she asked, and then cautiously added: “Or maybe you shouldn’t.” “We also have a house that has a ceramic lawn sculpture replica of Michelangelo’s ‘Pieta’.” “Don’t get smart,” she said. “And you are taking me to that old freight yard.” “I’m not smart,” I said, “just too financially stupid to be worth something in an age that trades the future on junk that was already worthless yesterday. And first we’re going to the diner.” “You sure it’s open today? Have you noticed all the flags?” she commented about the passing landscape. “Is it Fourth of July? Some President die?” “I can’t remember the name of the last President,” I said, “and only know the last name of this one.” “Hey, if you ever need parts for your car, you know where to go,” she said, and then laughed. “That’s cute,” I said. “Hey, what’s that?” She had pointed at a new shift in the waste-scape. “The house I’ll probably be living in—I don’t know, maybe I won’t have to be embarrassed about my car—or the writing I produce.” “I don’t know if you want to live there,” The Young Artist said, “because that building looks like an old prison.” I finally noticed a piss-yellow factory-like building behind a rusted, diamond-patterned fence along side of a long deserted road. We had left the cliff side slum where some of the few, the proud, the many were annually recruited, and were now in a parcel of wastescape or tundra that every mile or few suddenly opened up into a patch of razed earth. Not for long though. What is toxic and cordoned off today, will tomorrow be an aspirin tablet white shopping mall: the poison does not get distilled. It just gets transformed. The Young Artist told me to slow down. There was something she wanted to inspect. I had a good hunch what it was. On the fence was a metal sign reading: “Danger! Contamination. Keep out!” Ah, an object perfect for her art project. “Good choice,” I said. “That sign would make great cover art for a magazine or book.” “Ha? Oh, you meant for my art project—yeah, that would be neat,” she said. “But the building behind. That jaundiced colored brick tower. It looks like it might have once been the entrance to Alcatraz prison.” Close enough. It used to be a TB hospital, and then a mental hospital. Then—I don’t know—but something still having to do with incurable debilitating disease, until such incurability finally ate out the guts of the building. “Yeah, that’s an old hospital,” I said. I stopped the car. “A hospitalÉ?” she said with growing interest. “Yeah, I think they performed the first lobotomy in History there,” I said. It was a wild guess, you never know. Well, it sounded like the truth. This was a depressing enough area to cut out a piece of somebody’s brain. “Forget that,” she said. “I want to get some medical waste. I know that organic material, stuff made out of shit, has already been used as media before. But no one ever before used poison—pull over.” She was one step ahead of me. Poison, waste, dangerous chemicals or landfill—they all had the value of being worthless but also dangerous at the same time. It seemed that no matter what pure vision the artist or writer was trying to create, there was always some slick entrepreneur who called him or herself owner or critic and who would find a way to put a bar code on your work. Would someone be so eager to put a price tag on a glob of radioactive guk? Probably not, and I hope The Young Artist was not thinking about taking—asbestos—from that old hospital. Even my rattle trap of a car and a life had limits. She was still on the right track though. Poison was a material we could not overlook. And in addition to vandalizing language and literature, I would also have to find a way to poison them, and the sooner the better. The possibility to create something without it being Coca Cola was becoming harder and more desperate. Just take this abandoned hospital here. Right now it was left to be a source of inspiration, decay, and if you were lucky, a treasure trove of diseases and infection to infect and break down consumerism and commercialization. (Let’s hope it stays with that; the metaphorical . I am not picking up any used hypodermics, but if I see a bone—or better yet what I have trying to get my hands on for years, my very own skull, it’s coming home with me; the hell with being a gentleman and first offering it to her.) In a few months though—maybe even in a few weeks or less—this hospital will probably be torn down for another shopping mall. And I am almost at the point now where I would rather step on a used and discarded syringe than I would set foot into an upscale shopping center stocked with selling junk that is built to quickly break down. Forget about The Great American Novel. The shopping mall has become the great literary epic; the neon and concrete bunker is what you would get if you compiled all the novels endorsed by the Lobotomy Book of the Month Club. Of course, having an unpublished novel or few myself, might be some of the sour seasoning in my slightly bitter critique. But art that comes in a box so that it can go into a microwave to be easily digested (and just as easily crapped out) is just as dangerous to the spirit as a hard drug like heroin. The latter, eventually destroys you physically. Eventually it will become hard if not impossible to continue consuming its deadly poison. That is not the case with the shopping mall epic, which is what makes it more dangerous and deadly. The loboto-literature may rot your brain and soul, but it leaves your body intact, which means that you are free to go on consuming, even though you are mentally and spiritually dead. What a deal, and only from the U.S.A of Rot Inc. Art that works on its audience like a neutron bomb. Spirit and psyche get wasted, but body and bladder remain to continue functioning and consuming. But not when the art is poison, and art that corrupts, turns readers into criminals rather than consumers. Well, Word Criminals. Where you commit crimes through language, and against prisons made out of language. So I should give the mall a second chance. If I am going to be a criminal as well as a vandal, I am going to need a bloated and corrupt institution to ransack and vandalize. “Another epiphany?” she asked in a slightly mocking tone. “And one that Satan himself would be proud of,” I said. “Maybe I oughtta leave you in the car,” she said. “No way,” I said. “I want toxic waste too. I may not be an artist like you, but I can still find a way to put some globs of the stuff in my manuscript in the back seat.” We got out of the car to face the not too daunting prospect of climbing over an aluminum diamond patterned fence; unless you were wearing a long black gothic dress. “Fuck,” the young artist said as she just came to that realization herself. I softly chuckled. “After you,” I said. “No way,” she said, “and did I see a pair of red high top Converse in the back seat? They looked new, too.” “They are,” I said, “For when my other pair wear out. I was sort of saving them.” Too late. Ka-chunk! As she dropped her last boot somewhere in the back seat of my car, and began changing into my red Converse high tops. “Only two pairs of shoes and both of them sneakers?” she asked. “Something like that.” “Typical guy,” she said, and then reappeared with my red high tops on her feet, (which still fit in well with the rest of her outfit). She kicked one leg against the aluminum fence, a kick which revealed a nice leg for admiration. “Well, ready to do some trespassing?” she said. She then half nudged, half balanced the round point of one Converse foot into one aluminum triangle on the fence, and as soon as she was able to hook her foot, she slither-climbed over the metal curtain, causing it to rattle, rattle, rattle as she did so; after which she landed with a hard sounding thud on the other side of it. Once she re-poised herself, she gave me a steely little smug smile that just couldn’t wait for me to climb over. I did, and not as swiftly as her, and when I hit the ground—damn! It was like hitting concrete! The reddish brownish clay earth felt like it was frozen—even petrified—a fact she managed to conceal. Thus the cause of her present little snicker. It was about a half a mile to the hospital. The pane-less window’d tower was all that stood of a once great complex. Partial skeletal remains of one wing were still there on this tower’s right. This tower looked pretty gutted; there was too much light coming from behind its rusted glass-less windows; openings that were still “institutional”, for a few of these door size rectangles had mesh like fencing covering them: a pattern and material just like the one we crawled over. But there was still enough hospital to electrify our imagination. Yes, electric as in electro-shock-treatment. “Brrr,” the young artist said in a playful shivering sound. “Hospital give me a nice creepy fright.” “Yeah, hospitals can get pretty creepy,” I said. “And what was more spooky, was this medical book my parents had.” “Your—parents are doctors?” The Young Artist said. With a little surprise. I smiled. “Yeah, doctor of the assembly line, and doctor of the secretarial pool. Nahh, this book was a sort of a health care companion. But for parents to identify any health problems in their kids. The only problem, was that this book was about seventy five years old. It had the most horrible diseases with the most horrible pictures.” “Do you still have it?” The Young Artist asked. “It seems like it should be in the back seat of the car,” I said. “Unfortunately, it’s not. I don’t know how it got lost, but before it did, I saw some pretty gory stuff. Rotted, tree-trunk size legs; faces ulcer-eaten by syphilis.” “That was a big children’s disease, huh?” she said. “I don’t know, but the man in this big iron lung with his head sticking out, was the first cyborg.” “Want to know how to find instant Gothic art?” The Young Artist asked. “Just look at old technology.” “Or the photographs of isolated sick people,” I added, “like the one I always turned to, the picture of this naked skeletal girl.” “AnorexiaÉ” she tiredly said. “And no Mom, I don’t have itÉ” “But what was scary about her was the way a black bar had been painted across her eyes, so that she would look more like—a specimen.” “Ee-uu. That is creepy,” she said. “Yeah. There were other pictures: of every disease affliction except mine.” She stopped walking. I tried to smile as I explained: “After seeing those creepy pictures for about a zillion times, my extra sensitive imagination got the better of me, and I was soon convinced that there was something wrong with me—well, wouldn’t it make sense to feel like everybody had something wrong with them?” She laughed. “Yeah, funny,” I said, “but at the time, I already had nightmares because I couldn’t figure out what my disease was and if it was one that that book would know how to cure.” She now made a mock frown, and then a slight smerk: sympathy for my childhood distress, but also gentle upbraiding for letting something unnecessarily haunt me. Well, of course. All of our fears and terrors are just part of our imagination. She soon sensed my cynical displeasure, and as a way of apology, lightly took my hand and tried explain: “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” “That’s okay,” I said as I started walking. “And I don’t need to take your hand. I’m not five years old.” “Oh—well, excuse me,” she said. “But I’ve been pretty traumatized too. My time as a volunteer in a hospital was pretty weird.” I laughed. “You mean you were a Candy Striper?” “When I did it, and where I did it,” she said with teeth that barely opened, “we did not have to wear no striped uniform, or pass out flowers. We were allowed to be more sophisticated—put together patient charts—even put together confidential stuff on the computers—though we weren’t supposed to.” I shook my head. “That hospital was breaking labor laws,” I said. “We were still restricted,” she said, trying to defend the hospital, as well as herself. “There were a lot of things I was not supposed to do or see, and somehow I had gotten hold of this file I should not have seen.” “Was I in it?” I joked. “I don’t think so,” she sharply said. “This file was for a patient in the burn unit ward; a girl my age, and she had burns that were over most—“ She stopped without saying the rest. I gently touched her arm. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Thanks—and it’s alright,” she said, moving away. “Though once I saw those pictures—call me a coward—but I quit,” she said. “But if I was afraid, it was more of the hospital. I know it was there to do good—but sooner or later all that sickness it was supposed to cure and all that death it never could—was going to have an effect on the institution itself. They had to. Just look at the shell you see before us.” “It’s not just like that with hospitals,” I sighed. She shook her head. “I soon figured that out,” she said. “No thank you—I don’t want to be too involved with any institution. I like ‘em best when they’re like—this.” And “this” was in a lousy and sad state. We were about fifteen feet away from what had once been the main wing of the hospital. What looked like a tower in the distance, in the foreground showed a crumbling grand half circle of brick steps leading to its entrance way. Where there had once been three or four tall arched doors, was now a wobbled piece of a riveted over aluminum panel. It had been spray painted so many times that it looked like it had been splashed with tomato, alphabet, and pea soup. Above one of the arches was a carved in stone inscription: “Mercy for thos—“ and that is all there was. The rest had been hammered, shot at, or weathered off. My poet’s sense about loss or broken words kicked in, and it led me to inspect the doors. I was right. On a nearby ground level block of stone, were the numbers, 1957. That was not yesterday, but neither was it ancient history. Yet probably three quarters of this building was already gone, and what remained looked like a relic from some medieval or Roman landscape. After another blink—this one triggering off the imagination—I could picture a graduation class of student nurses posing for a group portrait on those steps: young woman barely out of their teens, and in spite of their starched white de-sexualized uniforms and caps, still managing to smile like kids who have just graduated and were about to celebrate that in twenty minutes or as soon as they could rip off their oppressive clothes and get into something loose and comfortable and party-able—whoo! In less than a blink, that graduating class was gone. I now became aware of the rich, lush, rubber-coated like ivy creeping over much of this hospital’s butter colored brick. Also, there was a concrete trench that lined the front of the building. This stone ditch was once probably used for maintenance purposes. It was now partially flooded with gasoline-colored stagnating muck, and it was clogged up with some of the guts that was once inside this hospital: metal trays, gurney frames, a twisting large spoke wheel, a bed spring that was almost folded in half. There were bricked up windows above this trench and like the doors, they were tall and arched and must have allowed a lot of refreshing light into this building when these portals were filled with glass. The windows up above, however, were less inviting. No need to brick them up. The heavy diamond patterned cable fencing did just fine. I then felt a tug at the hem of my t-shirt. I turned to see The Young Artist. She was pointing at the several stories above where a dozen or more rusted glassless window frames curved with the tower’s semi-cylindrical U-shape. Some of these windows still had aluminum shudders attached to them, and there was an odd kind of beauty in the way some of these rusted rectangles peeled out like shredded wall paper. For at least one or two stories, you could see into the windows themselves: enough to see how the ceiling had small tufts of debris hanging from it. There was something liberating about the way this part of the building had deteriorated: the windows that had for so long locked the illness in, were finally forced open and forced to admit freshness, beauty, life. Ah, but it had been too late. For how many had already died behind these windows. “Come on,” The Young Artist said. “Medical waste, remember? You need some too; for your book.” “Right,” I said, remembering, “rightÉ” We started to walk towards what we figured to be the rear of this hospital: or some place where there would an opening for us to get inside. The walk there took longer than expected. This tower seemed wider than it looked from the road. The ground was also hard and uneven: you would not know that it was practically summer in a dying New England factory town. “The Berlin Wall,” the Young Artist muttered as we walked along. At this point, we accepted this tower as just that: a wall we were never going to get across. “I knowÉ” I said. “But which side are we on?” “I think it’s the same on either side,” she said. “That sucks,” I said. “You got some spray paint?” she asked. “In your car?” “Maybe,” I said. “But I’d rather see if there’s a way to get into this place before going back to the car.” “Don’t bother,” she said. “You would need more than one can for what I have in mind. A giant H-bomb cloud going all the way up.” “And floating on top of it,” I said, “a suburban family having a barbecue.” Well, I not only got some ideas for a future poem, but also a valuable insight on what fuels the American Dream.

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Nick DiSpoldo, Small Press Review (on “Children, Churches and Daddies,” April 1997) Kuypers is the widely-published poet of particular perspectives and not a little existential rage, but she does not impose her personal or artistic agenda on her magazine. CC+D is a provocative potpourri of news stories, poetry, humor, art and the “dirty underwear” of politics. One piece in this issue is “Crazy,” an interview Kuypers conducted with “Madeline,” a murderess who was found insane, and is confined to West Virginia’s Arronsville Correctional Center. Madeline, whose elevator definitely doesn’t go to the top, killed her boyfriend during sex with an ice pick and a chef’s knife, far surpassing the butchery of Elena Bobbitt. Madeline, herself covered with blood, sat beside her lover’s remains for three days, talking to herself, and that is how the police found her. For effect, Kuypers publishes Madeline’s monologue in different-sized type, and the result is something between a sense of Dali’s surrealism and Kafka-like craziness. Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer’s styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere. Ed Hamilton, writer #85 (of Children, Churches and Daddies) turned out well. I really enjoyed the humor section, especially the test score answers. And, the cup-holder story is hilarious. I’m not a big fan of poetry - since much of it is so hard to decipher - but I was impressed by the work here, which tends toward the straightforward and unpretentious. As for the fiction, the piece by Anderson is quite perceptive: I liked the way the self-deluding situation of the character is gradually, subtly revealed. (Kuypers’) story is good too: the way it switches narrative perspective via the letter device is a nice touch. Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself. Write to Scars Publications to submit poetry, prose and artwork to Children, Churches and Daddies literary magazine, or to inquire about having your own chapbook, and maybe a few reviews like these. Jim Maddocks, GLASGOW, via the Internet I’ll be totally honest, of the material in Issue (either 83 or 86 of Children, Churches and Daddies) the only ones I really took to were Kuypers’. TRYING was so simple but most truths are, aren’t they? what is veganism? A vegan (VEE-gun) is someone who does not consume any animal products. While vegetarians avoid flesh foods, vegans don’t consume dairy or egg products, as well as animal products in clothing and other sources. why veganism? This cruelty-free lifestyle provides many benefits, to animals, the environment and to ourselves. The meat and dairy industry abuses billions of animals. Animal agriculture takes an enormous toll on the land. Consumtion of animal products has been linked to heart disease, colon and breast cancer, osteoporosis, diabetes and a host of other conditions. so what is vegan action? We can succeed in shifting agriculture away from factory farming, saving millions, or even billions of chickens, cows, pigs, sheep turkeys and other animals from cruelty. We can free up land to restore to wilderness, pollute less water and air, reduce topsoil reosion, and prevent desertification. We can improve the health and happiness of millions by preventing numerous occurrences od breast and prostate cancer, osteoporosis, and heart attacks, among other major health problems. A vegan, cruelty-free lifestyle may be the most important step a person can take towards creatin a more just and compassionate society. Contact us for membership information, t-shirt sales or donations. vegan action po box 4353, berkeley, ca 94707-0353 510/704-4444 C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review (on Children, Churches and Daddies) CC&D is obviously a labor of love ... I just have to smile when I go through it. (Janet Kuypers) uses her space and her poets to best effect, and the illos attest to her skill as a graphic artist. I really like (“Writing Your Name”). It’s one of those kind of things where your eye isn’t exactly pulled along, but falls effortlessly down the poem. I liked “knowledge” for its mix of disgust and acceptance. Janet Kuypers does good little movies, by which I mean her stuff provokes moving imagery for me. Color, no dialogue; the voice of the poem is the narrator over the film. Children, Churches and Daddies no longer distributes free contributor’s copies of issues. In order to receive issues of Children, Churches and Daddies, contact Janet Kuypers at the cc&d e-mail addres. Free electronic subscriptions are available via email. All you need to do is email ccandd@scars.tv... and ask to be added to the free cc+d electronic subscription mailing list. And you can still see issues every month at the Children, Churches and Daddies website, located at http://scars.tv Mark Blickley, writer The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book. MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG) functions: * To show the MIT Food Service that there is a large community of vegetarians at MIT (and other health-conscious people) whom they are alienating with current menus, and to give positive suggestions for change. * To exchange recipes and names of Boston area veg restaurants * To provide a resource to people seeking communal vegetarian cooking * To provide an option for vegetarian freshmen We also have a discussion group for all issues related to vegetarianism, which currently has about 150 members, many of whom are outside the Boston area. The group is focusing more toward outreach and evolving from what it has been in years past. We welcome new members, as well as the opportunity to inform people about the benefits of vegetarianism, to our health, the environment, animal welfare, and a variety of other issues. Gary, Editor, The Road Out of Town (on the Children, Churches and Daddies Web Site) I just checked out the site. It looks great. Dusty Dog Reviews: These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding. John Sweet, writer (on chapbook designs) Visuals were awesome. They’ve got a nice enigmatic quality to them. Front cover reminds me of the Roman sculptures of angels from way back when. Loved the staggered tire lettering, too. Way cool. (on “Hope Chest in the Attic”) Some excellent writing in “Hope Chest in the Attic.” I thought “Children, Churches and Daddies” and “The Room of the Rape” were particularly powerful pieces. Dusty Dog Reviews: She opens with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page. Cheryl Townsend, Editor, Impetus (on Children, Churches and Daddies) The new CC&D looks absolutely amazing. It’s a wonderful lay-out, looks really professional - all you need is the glossy pages. Truly impressive AND the calendar, too. Can’t wait to actually start reading all the stuff inside.. Wanted to just say, it looks good so far!!! Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship. Mark Blickley, writer The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book. You Have to be Published to be Appreciated. Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book or chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers. We’re only an e-mail away. Write to us. Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) I passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable. The Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology The Solar Energy Research & Education Foundation (SEREF), a non-profit organization based in Washington, D.C., established on Earth Day 1993 the Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology (CREST) as its central project. CREST’s three principal projects are to provide: * on-site training and education workshops on the sustainable development interconnections of energy, economics and environment; * on-line distance learning/training resources on CREST’s SOLSTICE computer, available from 144 countries through email and the Internet; * on-disc training and educational resources through the use of interactive multimedia applications on CD-ROM computer discs - showcasing current achievements and future opportunities in sustainable energy development. The CREST staff also does “on the road” presentations, demonstrations, and workshops showcasing its activities and available resources. For More Information Please Contact: Deborah Anderson dja@crest.org or (202) 289-0061 Brian B. Braddock, WrBrian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) Brian B. Braddock, WrI passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable. Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA “Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family. “Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation. want a review like this? contact scars about getting your own book published. Paul Weinman, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) Wonderful new direction (Children, Churches and Daddies has) taken - great articles, etc. (especially those on AIDS). Great stories - all sorts of hot info! The magazine Children Churches and Daddies is Copyright © 1993 through 2006 Scars Publications and Design. The rights of the individual pieces remain with the authors. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author. Okay, nilla wafer. Listen up and listen good. How to save your life. Submit, or I’ll have to kill you. Okay, it’s this simple: send me published or unpublished poetry, prose or art work (do not send originals), along with a bio, to us - then sit around and wait... Pretty soon you’ll hear from the happy people at cc&d that says (a) Your work sucks, or (b) This is fancy crap, and we’re gonna print it. It’s that simple! Okay, butt-munch. Tough guy. This is how to win the editors over. Hope Chest in the Attic is a 200 page, perfect-bound book of 13 years of poetry, prose and art by Janet Kuypers. It’s a really classy thing, if you know what I mean. We also have a few extra sopies of the 1999 book “Rinse and Repeat”, the 2001 book “Survive and Thrive”, the 2001 books “Torture and Triumph” and “(no so) Warm and Fuzzy”,which all have issues of cc&d crammed into one book. And you can have either one of these things at just five bucks a pop if you just contact us and tell us you saw this ad space. It’s an offer you can’t refuse... Carlton Press, New York, NY: HOPE CHEST IN THE ATTIC is a collection of well-fashioned, often elegant poems and short prose that deals in many instances, with the most mysterious and awesome of human experiences: love... Janet Kuypers draws from a vast range of experiences and transforms thoughts into lyrical and succinct verse... Recommended as poetic fare that will titillate the palate in its imagery and imaginative creations. Mark Blickley, writer: The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing the book. You Have to be Published to be Appreciated. Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book and chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers - you can write for yourself or you can write for an audience. It’s your call... Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA: “Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family. “Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation. Dusty Dog Reviews, CA (on knife): These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding. Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself. Dusty Dog Reviews (on Without You): She open with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page. Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself. Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada (on Children, Churches and Daddies): I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer’s styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere. Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA: Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship. Children, Churches and Daddies the unreligious, non-family oriented literary and art magazine Scars Publications and Design ccandd96@scars.tv http://scars.tv Publishers/Designers Of Children, Churches and Daddies magazine cc+d Ezines The Burning mini poem books God Eyes mini poem books The Poetry Wall Calendar The Poetry Box The Poetry Sampler Mom’s Favorite Vase Newsletters Reverberate Music Magazine Down In The Dirt magazine Freedom and Strength Press forum plus assorted chapbooks and books music, poery compact discs live performances of songs and readings Sponsors Of past editions: Poetry Chapbook Contest, Poetry Book Contest Prose Chapbook Contest, Prose Book Contest Poetry Calendar Contest current editions: Editor’s Choice Award (writing and web sites) Collection Volumes Children, Churches and Daddies (founded 1993) has been written and researched by political groups and writers from the United States, Canada, England, India, Italy, Malta, Norway and Turkey. Regular features provide coverage of environmental, political and social issues (via news and philosophy) as well as fiction and poetry, and act as an information and education source. Children, Churches and Daddies is the leading magazine for this combination of information, education and entertainment. Children, Churches and Daddies (ISSN 1068-5154) is published quarterly by Scars Publications and Design, cations and Design. Contact us via e-mail (ccandd96@scars.tv)ian Court, Gurnee, IL 60031-3155 USA; attn: Janet Kuypers. Contact us via snail-mail or e-mail (ccandd96@scars.tv) for subscription rates or prices for annual collection books. To contributors: No racist, sexist or blatantly homophobic material. No originals; if mailed, include SASE & bio. Work sent on disks or through e-mail preferred. Previously published work accepted. Authors always retain rights to their own work. All magazine rights reserved. Reproduction of Children, Churches and Daddies without publisher permission is forbidden. Children, Churches and Daddies copyright Copyright © 1993 through 2006 Scars Publications and Design, Children, Churches and Daddies, Janet Kuypers. All rights remain with the authors of the individual pieces. No material may be reprinted without express permission.