He came home on a clear day, early and unexpected; his leave coinciding with the start of spring. He’d taken the first train to London, slept sitting in the corridor, his back up against a compartment. Outside the squat red station at Holland Park he thought he wouldn’t recognise anything, not even where he lived. Then, as he walked down… Read it
Andrea lives in London and writes short stories, flash fiction as well as longer pieces. She is working on a novel, a supernatural mystery set partly in the present and partly in Victorian London.
My mother missed the trees of London. Where we live, far away in the north of Scotland, our landscape contains only the varying blues and greys of the sea and the soft greens and mauves of the heather heaths. She would sit every day by the window of our lone cliff top house tracing the shapes of trees on the… Read it
I take out the brooch I had made for him. The snake seems ominous to me now. It slithers into my mind, bites and poisons it. For I have not seen him in months. He has not followed me, only my instructions that he should not. His wife came to me in the summer, when the sky was china blue… Read it