I have rarely been one to do things in the way that seems logical, though I like to think I'm a logical person. For some people, it seems to be the reasonable thing to do to start writing with vignettes, move to short stories and then on to The Novel or The Screenplay.
I did it backward, I guess.
But I put my stories here in Chapter One as it seems "logical" to do so.
I do, on occasion, try! 
This is just a story that crept up on me as I was driving home after taking my younger son to school one day. It was meant, in its inception, to be the start of a iight romance, because most of my stories go there, at least at some point.
But, then it took a turn...
He saw her at nearly the same time every day.
She drove a BMW 335i, painted in a splashy red shade that shouted, "I am worth watching!" Most days, a boy was with her. The watcher judged the boy to be about nine or ten, and he wore a collared shirt. Probably, he guessed, a school uniform. The woman herself had hair the color of sunshine and small hands. That was all he ever really saw of her.
Excepting her smile. He saw her smile. Every day.
She and the boy -- her son? likely -- were always in the throes of conversation whenever he saw them. Both of them had infectious grins and once, he had heard her laugh. Such a laugh. Enthusiastic, rich, vibrant. It was such a laugh! Almost enough for him to leave the comfortable anonymity of his bistro table in front of the coffee shop to jog to her car, offer his card, and just introduce himself before the light changed.
Once, the woman and her son were not laughing. Their faces were serious as they stopped at the traffic signal. Talking, yes, but serious. It was so rare that he noticed and wondered about it, making all kinds of stories in his head about them, as he often did. The next day, though, their usual hilarity had returned and he chuckled himself, into his coffee cup.
Thus it went for months. Through the holidays, when the sunshine-haired woman had piled presents behind her. Into spring, when her windows were rolled down and her laughter was audible once more.
One day in late April, he saw her car in a parking lot. The lot of the local hospital. He was going there himself to visit friends and their child, who had been injured in a crash. He wondered if the smiling woman was visiting friends, too, and he felt a strange anticipation that she might be, and he might get to introduce himself. In his mind, he tried out different ways of saying hello that would not make him sound like a stalker.
On the floor where his friends' son was staying, he saw her. The hair, her hands. Walking into a room.
"Mom?"
"I'm here, honey. Mom's here."
The voices were subdued. Low. Broken. Raspy.
The watcher's eyes misted over all at once and he had to lean against the wall to compose himself before striding down the hall to see his friends and their injured son -- they were expecting him. The son would be fine, the doctor had said, so the visit was pleasant. Just making sure, keeping him overnight. He'd be back home in 48 hours, tops.
Encouraged, he said all the right things and, at length, left the hospital room.
The door on the smiling woman's son's room was closed.
He didn't see her again for a few weeks, though he did keep an eye open for the flashy red 335i from his usual table. May was in full swing and looking forward to June when he next saw the car.
But now, the passenger seat was empty. The sunshine-hair was laced with a black ribbon, and the woman's smile was gone. Though he watched and waited, he never saw it again.
*This tale won First Place in a Celtic Fiction contest in 2003
It was the thirtieth year that I, Achan son of Liam, had been Healer of our Clan.
The winter morning fought its way through the fog, as if against a reluctant enemy. The mists clung, as they often do, seeming to take purchase on the wan light.
I noticed the cycle of the seasons as I meditated upon the mystery of my life and wondered if it was time for the Wheel to turn once again, taking me with it. Had I been of any real significance on the Earth? I was the Healer, but I felt, then, that all my efforts for my people, in my craft, had made no difference in the world.
We were having the longest winter that I could remember, and I had seen more winters than most. Was this a Sign? That the Earth was tired? Needing rejuvenation? Was my purpose to provide it?
(Click here to finish this award-winning short story.)
*This is inspired by the movie version of The Last of the Mohicans. I had not read the novel (in spite of my background in literature) before I saw the movie (starring Daniel Day-Lewis) but I did so afterward. A very sad adaptation of the book was the film (great film! but so different than its literary origination!). In the book, however, Alice Munro lives out her days in peace and happiness.
In my story, she also has a "happily ever after."
I was almost killed before breaking my fast.
I am sure this was not our father’s intention, when he sent for my sister and me to come to him at his post in the Wilderness, but then so many things had gone wrong since Papa had been ordered to the Colonies, that I was almost past caring by the time the Iroquois came screaming out of the murky green forest depths, weapons in upraised arms, to kill the escort party that was to take us to the fort.
“Alice!” Cora shouted.
“Alice!” Duncan called, his voice powerful in the mist of the early morning.
I tried to slip from my horse gracefully, but fell as if I were a sack of coal to the leaf-covered path. The noise around me was fearsome. Wild cries from the natives of this land, Duncan bellowing commands, Cora, my elder sister, trying to shield me as always, hushing me as if I were planning on screaming.
“Let me go!” I hissed at her, trying to squirm out of the tight grip she had. “I won’t embarrass you, I swear.”
I couldn’t hear what she said after that, for Duncan lunged next to us, grunting as he slashed at the Indian I hadn’t seen coming.
(To read the rest of this bit of extended fiction, click here.)
* I have read The Canterville Ghost by Oscar Wilde. It was after seeing the filmed version, starring Patrick Stewart, that I was inspired to write a story of my own. So if this sounds vaguely familiar, that's why. Being honest, I also referenced the above mentioned film in the story. This tale was written solely for my own amusement and for the readers of my blog. I thought I would share it here.
Part the First
"Let me out of here!" Christopher demanded. The knight was appalled by the indignity this...creature!...was causing him to feel. Chains through his armor, an iron collar at his neck. Unable to stand up straight, unable to sit on the bench just behind his legs.
The evil being – not a crone, no, but a lady of his own rank, by the holies! – tugged at the shortest chain. His armor shifted, a metallic sound that rattled the plates of steel against one another on the flared back of his cuirass. "You have betrayed those who love you," she hissed.
"I have betrayed no one!" Christopher protested, straining ineffectually against the chains that bound him. "I have fought for my King!"
"You're a faithless scoundrel and deserve to die for the pain you've caused," the woman declared, stepping away and raising both her hands to the low ceiling of this dank, candlelit cellar in his manor. "But not by me, for I have to be able to tell truth when I am asked if I have indeed spilt your blood, Lord Knight of Asterleigh."