Good news!

Two short stories and a poem have been picked up!
"Cicadas" will be featured in Issue #4 of the ezine House of Horror this September!
"Pink Clouds in the Morning" will be in Liquid Imagination's Issue #4, also this September.
My haiku, "Mother's Joy" will be in Mused: BellaOnline's Literary Review in the Fall Eqinox issue.
Finally, something to add to that query letter!

This was a short story contest submission based on a charcater study of a specific painting.



Case Closed by Annemarie Bogart

Her image is etched in stained glass on the far wall of the temple that is my mind. She was much younger than her appearance suggested, a fact I would find out later. Her hair was thick and wavy. The thickness reminded me of caressing silken but heavy threads, if such a thing even exists. Her hands looked small and fragile as she pulled back that thick red curtain. She wasn't quick to smile but when she did it held that shyness yet sincerity that some women possess. Her eyes were what struck me most; they held a weariness that should not be acquired until much later in life.
She was from Guatemala. God only knows the circumstances that brought her here. She lived in a small studio apartment that faced a grimy brick wall. A dumpster sat next to her only window. She worked two jobs. During the day, she did housekeeping for an elderly couple that lived way uptown. It was a very long commute on the number six line; almost not worth the money she was paid. She took pride in keeping her employer's home impeccable. They were a nice old couple and they treated her well, sending her home with any leftovers they had. They would buy her a gift during the holidays.
At night she worked as a waitress at a diner not too far from where she lived. It meant she spent a lot of time on her feet. She couldn't afford proper shoes for the position, ones that would cushion and support her feet. When her grueling shift was over her feet would ache. You wouldn't think there would be much eatery traffic at that time of night, but as the posters say, New York is the city that never sleeps, and apparently, never stops eating either.

On this particular night, well, early morning, the place became packed with post bar patrons. The booths overflowed and she tried her best to keep up with the drunken demands of her customers. The girl she usually worked with called in sick that night. Her boss had made light of the situation by telling her that she's now make double the tips. Her employer at this position wasn't half as kind as those she cleaned for. He was an aged Greek man who lost his wife to cancer five years earlier, since then; he holds no remorse or sympathy for anyone or their situation. He could have helped her that night with the overflow of people, but chose not to. The very rowdy table by the door, the table that had ordered pretty much every appetizer as well as burger on the menu, they decided to skip out without paying the bill. Something that happens more times then you would imagine. Somehow, this became her fault, and the money was deducted from her paycheck.

She was glad to get out of there that night. It reminded her of a similar one that had occurred not that far back. The same thing had happened; it had been a thirteen-dollar deduction from her check. Tonight had been a whole lot more. But the feeling of wanting to get out of there as the tears stung her eyes was the same. It was that night she would see something that would change the course of her life.
She had walked briskly hugging her thin coat tightly to her. The weather had turned much colder during her shift and she hadn't dressed properly for this autumn blast of premature chill. Working two jobs and living in the rat's nest the landlord tries to pass off as an apartment, you would think she would have a decent coat. Truth is, she sent most of her paycheck back home so her mother can support her younger brothers and sisters.
She was almost home when she heard arguing coming from an alley across the street. She peered over casually, pedestrian rubber necking. It was then that the flashes went off in the alley along with three sharp bangs to accompany them. She froze instantly. The darkened figure emerged from the alley. The figure, most likely a man jumped into the passenger side of the idling car. She hadn't even noticed a car sitting there running until the man jumped in and it sped away, disappearing into the city night. It never occurred to her to just continue on her way home, forget what she had just seen. That would have been out of character for her.
So, she spent what little left of that night clear into late the next morning talking to the police. They seemed to think that maybe she could help them get this killer; maybe she saw something, anything that may lead them to justice.
What she didn't know was that the man who was murdered that night was a Wall Street big wig who seemed to like to welsh on bets. There is only a certain amount of rope some shylocks will shell out before they come collecting. Turns out, this guy, well, he just flat out refused to pay thinking his Fifth Avenue penthouse could protect him from the New York's underworld. He thought wrong. She saw the car. That was the kicker. The car she had barely noticed until it drove off became the most important piece of evidence. She remembered the license plate. It's a one in a million shot that anyone on a darkened New York street would even bother to investigate a shooting let alone remember the license plate of the getaway car. She was a key eyewitness. Thankfully, facts like that are not kept under wraps for long within a tainted police department. It was just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I suppose. It happens too often to count.
So, you might think to yourself why this girl's image holds such importance to me. She was just a regular person struggling to get through this life, working her hands to the bone and doing little to enjoy her young life. If she never witnessed that murder that night, in all likelihood, our paths would have never crossed. I remember her so well because it was I who glanced upon that image of her as she quickly glanced out of her small window before opening the door. I only saw her for a second or two before the thick red curtain closed behind her.
She didn't even hesitate when she opened the door; she had not yet acquired the automatic distrust of strangers that comes from living in neighborhoods like this one. It was then that I had to place that fatal bullet in her head. It was the next day that I gained much of my information about her through newspaper articles. It was a few weeks later in an article buried back on page twenty that I read about my handiwork paying off. There it was in good ole black and white, "Case Closed."

Keeping out the Cold.....short story by Annemarie Bogart

The window was shut to keep out the cold. Well, that was what she inferred as she shivered slightly pulling her sweater tighter around her. She closed it too quickly. It rattled slightly as the old peeled away sill was assaulted by the loose glass of the ancient window pane. I knew she just wanted to shield me from the yelling from outside. She always tried to protect me from it, pretending it wasn’t there. But, I knew it was there, and the sad part it as much as she tried, she knew I knew it was there.

Heather was my big sister; she was eight, two years older than me. She always took care of me like a mother would although we had a mother to do that. It was during the times my mother was occupied with Dad that she would become my surrogate. She was strangely mature for her age. She was kind, never selfish. She always let me have whatever I wanted, no questions asked. If she got a toy for Christmas, and I decided I wanted it for myself, then she just let it be- no fighting. Looking back now, it is all kids stuff, and maybe I was the spoiled one. But, I realize now why she never wanted to argue, never wanted to have to have him raise his voice. She almost wanted us to be invisible to him. It was her way of protecting me, again.

Our dad, as mom would say, was always tired. He worked too hard, she would tell us. “Don’t disturb Daddy,” she’d say in a whisper grasping us gently by our sleeves, her eyes pleading with us to obey her. Heather would nod silently in understanding and pull me away to our room. She showed me the mime game where we’d pretend to be something and instead of shouting out the answers we’d write it on paper and hold it up to let the other see your guess. A silent nod or shake of the head would let you know your guess was correct. It seemed when he came home is mostly when we played these silent games.

Sometimes, okay very rarely, Dad would come home in a good mood. He’d laugh and toss me in the air. He’d take us to the park. He’d play catch with Heather and I with the red rubber ball Mom had bought for us one Christmas. Other days, most days he’d come home mad. I was never sure exactly what he was mad about. I heard him say once in awhile that the house was a sty, whatever that was. Other times, he just seemed to be mad at Mom. She would try to get us upstairs. She would have tears in her eyes as she gently would coax us up the stairs. Her finger to her lips hushing us to silence. Heather would always take the hint and grab my hand and lead me away as quickly as she could. . We would hear him throw things, glass shattering on occasion. We would hear Mom crying a lot. Sometimes, if we were lucky, he’d fall asleep after dinner and we wouldn’t have to tip toe around his mood swings. Sometimes, if we were really lucky he wouldn’t come home at all until we were all asleep.

Tonight was not a lucky night. He had come home while we were doing our homework. The table shook when he slammed the back door. Mom got up quickly from the table and whispered to me to finish the math then head upstairs. Heather closed her books quickly and took over the seat that Mom had unoccupied. We heard him call Mom a few names that you never imagine someone calling your mother, especially not your own Dad. We could hear Mom telling him to lower his voice but that only seemed to make him yell louder. Heather grabbed my hand gently and nodded to the stairs. The math homework was never finished.
We bounded silently up the stairs knowing every part of the wooden steps to avoid the creaks. Silence was key in times like this. Heather shut the door firmly behind us; she held her back against the door of our room maybe hoping she could push back all the screaming that invaded our ears. She quickly left her spot at the door and opened the closet. She pulled out the old doll house. She beckoned me over wordlessly with the wave of her delicate hand. I tiptoed to her and knelt down next to her. She opened the old wooden house and silently we began to play.

The doll house occupied hours upon hours of our silent dreams and hopes. Wishes that one day our family may be as perfect as the family we created in those few precious hours in that toy home; a family that didn’t hear shouting. A place where fear didn’t exist. A house where smiles were as constant as those painted on the small wooden figures that we played with. The pretend play always consisted of a mom doing all the things people are programmed to believe mom’s should do- cook, clean, do laundry. The dad would come home from work. They would eat peacefully at dinner sitting happily around a well made table. The happy chatter of the day’s events would unfold for the family to share as they ate a delicious meal. The family would then retire to the sitting room where they would watch television together. The children would sit at mother’s feet while she told them a story. Then father would lift them both and carry them into their beds where mommy would tuck them in and whisper sweet prayers in their ears.

I’m not quite sure why we played this game so often; it was almost like a tease in a way. Letting us know the way it could and maybe should be, but in the end realizing that it is the way it never will be. At the time of playing it seemed fun, but sadness always came over me when the game was complete on realization that this grand world only lives within the walls of that old wooden dollhouse and not in the walls of my own dilapidated home.

Tonight the yelling seemed to spill from downstairs into the driveway. That happened some times. I could hear Mom scream something about calling the police. We had all heard that said before, but it never happened. We heard a loud crash, most likely a flower pot from the side yard. I stood to go look out the window. Heather touched my arm and shook her head vehemently. I sat back down on the floor and hugged my knees close to myself. Heather got up and pulled her sweater tightly around her. “It’s getting cold,” she said as she walked briskly to the window.

As I said earlier, it was shut to keep the cold out. Not the cold of the night air, for it was September and the air had not yet taken on that brisk chill that it does in the later months. No, this cold was from the heart itself. A cold between two people that would never be the loving parents we dreamt about as we moved those wooden people from room to room in the doll house. This cold was worse because it couldn’t be eased by a blanket or a coat. This cold permanently scarred two small children.

The closing of that window did very little to lessen the cold that vibrated through the window pains with vibrations of yelling. Heather meant well by trying to block out the voices. No child should have to hear them, but we did. I don’t mean to lament on this for I realize there are some much more worse off than we were. Some kids get beaten, some starved. Dad never touched us, not a hand, but we always lay in fear of him. I guess we were always more concerned that his wrath would turn from Mom to us. She protected us so that never happened. We had seen him hit her on two occasions.
The first time was Christmas Eve; I was three. Heather and I were hiding watching all the presents being laid out under the tree by Mom. We were so excited. Then he came home. He was infuriated at the amount of gifts we had under the tree. Is that what I slave for all day, he screamed. She begged him not to wake up the children. “Please, don’t do this tonight,” she said her voice hushed but strained with weariness and emotion.
“I’m the bad guy, right?” he yelled stumbling forward a bit. He caught himself on the coffee table before falling over. He laughed sarcastically in a strange way that sent shivers up my spine from all the way up the stairs. He slapped her hard across the face with the back of his hand. She fell across the room landing on the presents at the foot of the tree. “You mind me, woman,” he said in a more hushed voice and stumbled back out of the room. I heard the door slam and the car peel quickly away from our gravel driveway. We tiptoed quietly back to our room and cried ourselves to sleep.

The second occasion was Halloween, the next year. I was a ghost, Heather a witch. Mom was busy getting dinner ready while we divvied up our candy into two pots. We were testing the different candies and were very impressed with our loot. Mom told us to wash up and sit at the table for Dad would be home soon. He arrived while we were in the bathroom. We could tell when we saw him that he was in one of those moods; the ones that made you want to avoid him. The food was on the table, so there was no escape. We sat down tentatively at the table evading his eyes.
“What? You don’t even say hello to your father anymore?” he boomed as his fist strikes the table. The plates clang slightly.
“Our little Trick-or-Treaters are probably just tired,” Mom offered trying to diffuse the situation.
“I’m talking to my kids, I don’t need you answering for them,” he snarled, his breath smelling strongly of the same aroma that covers his room on mornings he doesn’t get up for work. It’s usually on the nights he doesn’t get home until after we are asleep. This smell was never a good sign; it always meant trouble was to follow.
“Tom, just leave them be,” she said ever so gently, but to him it must have sounded like curse words by the way he reacted. He pushed him chair back throwing his plate of food against the wall as he does.
“Don’t you ever tell me what to do, woman,” he screamed, the memory still able to send goose bumps up my arm. He always addressed her as “woman” during these times; not by her name, Julia, or Momma, as he did occasionally when he was in one of his rare good moods. It was as if he had distanced himself so far from us that we were no longer names, just woman and kids.
The arguing persisted and Heather grabbed my arm. There was no way to escape, he was too close. He approached my mother menacingly and I could see her instinctively backing away. He pushed her hard into the china cabinet. Her shoulder shattered the middle pane. She rolled away seemingly okay, but when she turned to us we could see blood starting to soak the floral blue print of her house dress. The sight of blood was all it took for us to start crying. He seemed surprised by it, too. He cursed himself and walked out of the house, slamming the door as he did.

He told us the next morning that something like that would never happen again. He swore he wasn’t going to drink anymore. I was confused by this, because I thought people needed to drink to survive. I figured maybe he’d just be thirsty, but be able to deal with it. He cried apologizing over and over to Mom and to us. We honestly thought that maybe, just maybe, we could finally be like the family in the dollhouse. That the slice Mom took on her shoulder was a small sacrifice for such a life change.

Well, Dad’s good behavior seemed to wean off about three months later. I think he went to a party that men have before one of their friends get married. A batcher party, I think that is what mom called it. That never made any sense to me, what’s a batcher? Anyhow, I guess we have learned to live around him more than with him. We do our best to avoid him, afraid of what disposition he may be in. We go upstairs when he gets home, making sure all our chores are done before that time. We are silent at meal time afraid of what we say may cause an outburst. We shut the windows of ourselves to keep out the cold just as Heather does with our bedroom window. We have spent our young lives trying to keep out the cold. Our Mom has done everything she can to try to make everything seem normal. Sadly, the cold lives with us, and as every day goes by it creeps into our soul, though we try our best to keep it out.





The End

(Untitled) Prologue, young adult fiction

(Untiltled) "The Football Book"
young adult fiction
By Annemarie Bogart
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Prologue:



“I’m going pro,” Jasper Grady says defiantly. He takes a long swallow from the beer bottle not concerned with the liquid that drips down the sides of his jaw onto his leather football jacket. “All the way,” his hand emphasizing his point sailing through the air like a jet plane cutting through sky.
“Sure,” his friend Rusty says jokingly from the front seat of the old pick-up. “Hell, this town got you guys head filled with stuffing. Every year you’d think there was another pro coming out of this county.”
“This town… hell, this county… this state has never seen a team like me and Grady here,” Bobby says looking through the rearview mirror at his best friend in the back seat. Jasper catching his eye in the reflection nods solemnly in agreement.
“Damn straight,” he says tipping the bottle towards his best friend and quarterback in the driver‘s seat.
“You just pissed, you could never got to play,” Bobby laughs at his friend Rusty next to him in the front seat, taking a swallow from his bottle.
“Sure…rub it in,” Rusty says throwing his empty bottle out the window.
“Hey man, this is my fuckin property remember,” Jasper hits his friend on the shoulder.
“Sorry, man” Rusty says opening another beer as the pick-up flies up one of the many dirt roads of the property. “So whatta we gonna do tonight? Just drive around here getting drunk?”
“That’s the plan” Bobby says taking a drink of this beer.
“Hey, Grady,” Rusty looks into the back seat. “That Fall Dance is coming up soon enough…you finally gonna get the balls to ask out Sandy?”
Jasper hits his friend on the back of the head. “Fuck you, man…besides that dance is like two months away.” He looks out the window as his two friends break out into hysterical laughter.
“I’m sorry,” Bobby says attempting regain his composure for his best friend’s sake, “but we’ve been hearing you talk about her…well, shit, Rusty…you remember him not talking about her?” Bobby glances sideways at Rusty who nods guzzling back his beer.
“Well, Grady…he just has a point is all,” Rusty says shrugging his shoulders.
“Whatever,” Jasper says downing his beer. “Laugh it up.” He grabs another beer out of the bag next to him.
“Just fuckin ask her,” Rusty laughs. “So we can go on with our lives.”
“Yeah, I will,” he says steadily watching his friend get a little more risky on the winding turns. “Fuck, Bobby…there’s trees everywhere…slow down…”
“Take it easy, Jazz,” he laughs swigging from his bottle, “I’ve been riding these roads all my life with you…fuckin bikes, quads…like the back of my hand.” The truck takes a hard turn, the front tire hitting a rock.
“Yeah, Grady, since when you cautious about anything?” Rusty laughs turning to look at his buddy in the back seat.
“QB’s a shitty driver, Rust,” he grins sending Rusty into hysterics.
“What you say back there,” Bobby says turning around in the seat trying to swat his friend in the backseat. Jasper looks ahead …the darkness… the rumbling of the truck…the tree…the impact…just for a second…then blackness…


When Jasper awakes, he feels a dull ache in his shoulder. He’s no longer in the truck,, he's about ten feet from the truck in a patch of thick grass. He looks at the truck from the ground. Somehow the back door is ajar…Did he crawl out of there? Did it open during the impact? Did he jump out before impact? He is disorientated…not quite sure what is happening…Then it dawns on him.

“Bobby?” he yells trying to sit himself upright in the grass, his head spinning. “Bobby? Fuckin answer me, man.” He tries to get up but nausea waves over him and he remains on his knees. He crawls towards the pick-up. “Rusty!” he yells getting closer to the truck.
The pick-up appears to have gone head-on into the tree. He crawls to the driver’s side using the truck as leverage to help him up…fighting back the pain.
He peers through the open driver’s side window and see his friend leaning unmoving on the steering wheel.
“Bobby,” he yells shaking his friend’s shoulder which makes Bobby’s head fall back onto the seat. Jasper then sees the gaping hole in the windshield on the passenger’s side. Rusty is no longer in the truck. “Fuck!” he screams staring at the shattered glass blood clinging to its parameters. “Rusty!” he yells again, his head splitting.
“Jazz,” he hears Bobby whispers and Jasper looks at him. He is bleeding from the forehead. “My chest, man…I can hardly breathe.” Jasper looks wildly at the other side of the truck.
“I gotta get help, man,” he says quickly. “You’ll be okay here, Bobby…Fuck,” he pauses. He forcefully opens the door, “Come on,” he says leaning over his friend undoing his seatbelt. He tries to pull his friend out of the truck but manages instead to pull him on top of himself. They both hit the ground...hard.
“”Fuck, Jazz…what the fuck are you doing?” Bobby’s says holding his bleeding head.
“Look, I gotta get help and I ain’t leaving you in there in case it blows or something. Look pull yourself back as far as you can.. I gotta find Rusty.” Jasper gets up slowly steadying himself and runs around to the other side of the truck. He tries to follow the illumination of the head lights on the woods looking desperately. He walks into the bushes, scratching his face on a wayward branch.
“Rusty!” he yells waiting to hear any sound. Nothing. He steps forward and trips over something. In the dark he feels around. Moisture on the grass…he feels something solid…cloth… pants…a leg…Rusty. He can’t see him. The darkness is thick and the headlights seem to be shining above them.
He feels for his face…feeling a sticky hot dampness where there should be a face. “Rusty,” he screams trying to revive his friend. No response. He leans over him placing his head on his chest. No heartbeat. ‘Fuck, come on, man…be okay, Rusty…wake up,” he starts pumping his chest like he sees them do in the movies. Then he leans in to try to blow into his friend’s mouth…He tastes it… the unmistakable salty metallic taste…blood. He gets up tears falling from his eyes. He backs away quickly.
“I gotta get help,” he yells. “Bobby, you hear me?” he shouts over the truck.
“Yeah,” he hears his friend groan. “Where’s Rusty, Jazz?”
Jasper ignores the question, “I’m going to get help…stay put, Bobby. I’ll be back soon with help, okay. Just stay put,” Jasper yells and runs back to the road… He runs like he has never run before. He needs to get back to his house, needs to get help.
Fifteen minutes later, Jasper crashes through his front door.
“Dad!” he screams up the stairs. “I need help!”

Teen Pregnancy....

For the second straight year, teen pregnancy rates are on the rise. Okay, I just don;t get it. See, I went to a Catholic school, from 1st to 12th grade...we didn't discuss sex...ever. And the "birds and bees" talk just never came from my parents...maybe I was absent that day, I'm not sure. I'm pretty sure a few people I knew were in the same boat. TV wasn't dripping with sexuality, now was music. Cable just started getting poplar, and their were a few VCR's...so our access to R movies was limited. Mature video games just didn't exist. So, my point here is, with so many blinders placed oer us, and our complete and utter ignorance on the subject, how come our teen pregnancy rate wasn't through the roof? No one I knew had a baby...no one. Never heard of anyone who did either. Now, I live in Queens, NY, not Lancaster, Pennsylvania, so I am just wondering with the plethora of education, and knowledge and first hand acquaintances that have to do with teenage pregnancy, why is the rate rising and not dropping?
I'll get back to this...i just wanted to get that off of my chest.

TV...why do you suck?

Seriously, I have like 500 channels, so why is there nothing interesting on anywhere?
Is it me? Have I just been given too many choices now that I cannot decide on just one. Have I become addicting to channel surfing? Truth by told, I have a hard time sitting though a commercial break anymore. I find myself searching for other shows or snippets of movies to fill in that 2 minutes and twenty seconds of the show's off-time. I know, it sounds completely crazy...like I MUST have control of everything I watch, refusing to bend to sit through a commercial that I did not chose to watch. It's madness.

Maybe it's not me. Maybe people have just accepted these sub par shows and movies to watch.For example, once in a blue moon, I break down and press in a "Pay Per View" movie...the latest being PINEAPPLE EXPRESS. Okay, I had heard great things about it...it's hilarious, sooo funny, yadda yadda yadda. First off, is it possible to make a comedy anymore without Seth Rogan? He's in everything! I like him and all, but man, talk about overkill. Secondly, the movie was mildly amusing, not hilarious, as I was led to believe. Have these people ever seen a great comedy before that this movie got so much hype? I am losing faith in Hollywood. They have no sense of humor. Thirdly, I seriously could care less what happened. I have been finding this happening more and more. I just lose interest and feel like turning movies off mid-way, even if I just spent $4.95 to watch them. Okay, so maybe it's me. I expect too much, I guess.

I mean, for instance, HBO and all your little sister channels like HBO Comedy, HBO Family...why do you seemingly play the same movies every day? Variety people. There are some movies I literally have not seen in years. Why doesn't any of these channels show them instead of airing NEVER BEEN KISSED seven to ten times a week? When I was younger, a small child in Queens, New York, we have the "Four-thirty Movie" on ABC, every weekday. "The Planet of the Apes" marathon, Charles Bronson week, Clint Eastwood week. Now, those were the days my friends.
"Rich Man Poor Man" shown in five parts...ahhhh. Good stuff.

Kung Fu Saturdays! Anyone remember those? The Chinatown Kid, The Five Fingers of Death, Bruce Lee classics. I mean, these are the things a kid would look forward to. An Abbott and Costello movie every Sunday morning after church. Everyone had their favorite. Mine was Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein. I hadn't seen that in, I swear, maybe twenty years, then lo and behold HBO aired it a few weeks ago. I know, I was in shock as well...but I must admit, kudos to you fine programming people at HBO for taking a chance once in awhile. Very rarely, but once is better than none.

We worked with seven channels growing up, and we were happier! The Wizard of Oz was on ONCE a year...That's it! No DVD, no cable, no VHS, no TIVO, no DVR...ONCE! You missed it, then too bad, you had to wait another whole year to see it. Same with It's a Wonderful Life, The Grinch That Stole Christmas. Geez, I can't tune on cartoon network during the Christmas Season that I don't hear Karloff's creepy voice telling me about Wooville and the roast beast. Overkill destroyed television. Too many channels, too many choices and ownership of movies and classic shows cheapened everything. We are a spoiled society, and television is one of the many things we have seen drastically change during my lifetime. A very small example of our society's overkill, but valid all the same.

Okay, that's all for now, I have to catch a missed episode of True Blood on HBO on Demand ;) Okay, sometimes, I like being spoiled, just a bit.

Rantings...Religion

Where to start today? The two subjects that instantly ruffle people's feathers...politics and religion. Should I? sigh...maybe I will tackle religion today.
Raised a Roman Catholic, schooled for twelve years in Catholic school, I struggle now with the decision to place my son in religious education because, basically...I think it's all complete and utter crap. It is a fairytale spoon fed to the masses and even today, they eat it up...they fight over it...Over what? Something that can never be proven. It boggles the mind.
So, why the struggle with putting my son in religious education...Sadly, I think it's a more social decision. Won't he wonder why he isn't receiving Communion like everyone else his age? So far...no. But we haven't been to the slew of May communions this year, so the questions may come then.
Now, some of religion is good...the basic life lessons and morals. Sure, we all should know these things. But, it's really just common sense, isn't it? Parents should be able to pass these ideals on without having to give in a mandatory collection fee each year. Yes, the envelope counting. Are you up to par? So you give enough of a "donation" every year? The donation that funds putting crown molding in the rectory. I want crown molding, but no one is sending me a envelope to fund it. Oh well, so much for that poverty vow.
The holidays...Hooray for Christmas and Easter. But truthfully, isn't all about Santa and the bunny rather than the actual reason for the holiday? Gifts, gifts, gifts....how the stores love Christmas. Christmas does make you feel all warm and fuzzy, I'll admit that. But, it's really not because of religion. I think it's the gawdy Christmas sweater...but that's just me.
Okay, that is rant #1....not exactly finished but started...(and I didn't check for errors, grammar police...you know who you are!)