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Flowing Sheet VII

A Tempo (1) by Diane Coffin

When at last he set aside the quill, Stephen stretched his stiffened hand. He had worked without noticing the deepening shadows; the last of many pages, covered with miniscule script, was drying beside him. His eyes felt feeble, and he rubbed them beneath his spectacles. As lines of code floated and burned beneath his fingers, Stephen felt a kind of moral heaviness descend, and he bowed beneath its weight.

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An Abiding Love of Gunnery (2) by Tim Elliot

They stole out of the house through the Orangery in the warm, damp, spicy-scented half-light, into the summer dawn. Although the sun was up and already hot on their faces, the smell of dew was still in the air; the mist lay white in the valley, covering the stream on both sides halfway up to the deer-filled woods. They tiptoed across the stone-flagged terrace into the formal garden, raced along their "cutting-out expedition" route, traversing the low formal walls, avoiding noisy gravel. Once onto the lawn proper, they headed around the side of Broke Hall, disturbing only the rabbits, past the new sycamore, down the greensward slope to the boathouse by the hard.

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Help for Miss Hannan (3) by Linda Laflamme

“Ah, Bonden, there you are,” said Jack as the door to the great cabin opened. “Can you knit?”
“Which I have knit, sir. It’s really just knotting and splicing if you take my meaning, but with a powerful thin marlinspike and fid. Comforters come easy and I’ve even managed a pair of mittens for Joe Plaice—his fingers feel the damp something cruel now.”

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