Maturin's Morning (1) by Lois Anne du Toit
Stephen Maturin awoke to the sound of groaning. It was some seconds (twenty or more, he estimated with keen interest), before he recognised its source as himself. Upon the realisation, he eased, not without difficulty, into a sitting position and gazed with cold, reptilian dislike at the jagged stone - calcareous - onto which he had rolled during the night.
The Rock (2) by Lois Anne du Toit
The first Sir Joseph Blaine knew of his attackers was a numbing blow to his right side. Instinctively he struck out with his stick, but there were two of them, and now pain was claiming his attention, pain and a sense of flowing wetness and heat. His head swam with sudden gauzy veils; moonlight winked off something - a knife blade, but the thought carried neither meaning nor urgency.
A Feathered Lizard? (3) by Keith Peterson
With a blue-crowned flurry, the kingfisher abandoned his fishing perch on a dead branch over the brook, disturbed in part by the splashing of the horse, a serviceable and sweet tempered animal named Lolla. Stephen Maturin, in no particular hurry, aiming his subfusc clad person ultimately in the direction of London and a meeting of the Royal Society, but more immediately Ashgrove cottage, was no more now than ten English miles away, how many leagues or cable lengths he could not in all honor say.
An After Dinner Conversation by Steven Ross
After the Nile by Ms. N. Maste
The Custom of the Service by Martin Watts
Misuse and Boredom by Anon
Over Coffee by Greg Menke
Photo Session by Karen von Bargen
Pulling's Prize by Roger Marsh
Stephen Maturin Meets William Goldman by Susan Wenger
Well Met in Languedoc by Greg Menke