Welcome to Elfwood. "Lessons from Death" was a very good read, nothing like poking fun at Death, eh? Love it! Keep up the good work!

Welcome to the library. I am glad you share your visions with us, for that is what I consider your writings to be. They are amazing, emotional and very powerful, and I guess I have seldom read such to-the-point descriptions. I like your topics, too. They are exactly the kind of stuff I like to read. Keep me informed about upcoming stories, please!

Hey...your stuff is really really good, and i love reading it. Every one of your stories has really really good imagery and everything...i really enjoy reading them, and hope to see more on here. Welcome to Elfwood and keep up the great work. Will be back again to read more if more is in here, k?

Hey I left comments on all of your stuff, so I'll probably just be repeating myself here... The description and mood settings are beyond belief... You are easily one of my favorite elfwood authors now, and please tell me if you get more stuff up.

Wow. Very deep, very emotional. All of your stories grab at the mind like a hook, and reel you in. The mood that they set is very intense. I hope that you write some more, only having four stories just doesn't do your ability justice.
BTW, the poem in your bio is a very interesting paradox. As far as I can tell it means that words bind us, but if we didn't have words we would be even more bonded then we are now. Maybe that is the real meaning, or maybe not. Nonetheless, I like it.

Kathleen Michael Saracen replies: "Yes, that's exactly what the poem means. Languages can be incredibly imprecise when it comes to describing things, so they bind us to what words exist (because really, making up words can just get troublesome). But, if we didn't have words at all, how would we describe anything (barring, of course, the posibility of telepathy)?"

I love it! I love the way you use such deep description-- it's wonderful! Keep writing!

My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low-grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a 15 year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims, like he invented the question mark. Sometimes, he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy - the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical: summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring, we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent, I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds. Pretty standard, really.