About Sandra
I used to cruise the French waterways with my husband four or five months a year, and wrote fiction and poetry. Now I live on the beautiful Dorset coast, enjoying the luxury of being able to have a cat, cultivating an extensive garden and getting involved in the community. I still write fiction, but only when the spirit moves me - which isn't as often as before. I love animals, F1 motor racing, French bread and my husband, though not necessarily in that order.
It’s a good-natured split; why wouldn’t it be? They practically grew up together. “You sure you’re okay with the Le Creuset set?” she says, doubtfully. “If you like I’ll swap it for the slow-cooker.” “I’m good,” he says. “I’ve more … Continue reading →
“Why would you want to walk on the beach when it’s a challenge for you to even walk on the pavement,” she’d said sharply this morning. He’d bitten his lip, turning to gaze out to sea. As ever, in hearing … Continue reading →
The alleyway reeks of goat, patchouli and tobacco. She’s broken from the others, who are straggling towards the square to self-consciously order their Camomile, Russian or Lapsang Souchong teas, and she’s lingering in the doorway of a carpet-trader. The … Continue reading →
She leaves through the front door as he enters through the back, fitting her footsteps into the giant prints he’s freshly embedded in the snow; he’ll never know how nearly he just missed her. After he left this morning for … Continue reading →
It’s dark and safe here. But these strands are flourishing, encroaching daily… strands of consciousness that must be avoided at all costs. And it’s becoming difficult to move around them. Brushing against one particularly robust strand, she’s swiftly hurtling to … Continue reading →
Sea-mist clung stickily to our clothes and hair, as we trailed after Rose to the shoreline. Once there, our stepmother raised the urn in dramatic fashion and, shrieking “farewell my love,” she cast our father’s ashes to the waves. My … Continue reading →
There had never been a railway line here; but then there had never been a forest either. Her birthday had promised enchantment from the outset. Rosy fingers had crept surreptitiously along the horizon as she’d toddled outdoors, patting aside the … Continue reading →
As a medic, Bill couldn’t accept he wasn’t a suitable donor for his son; he’d gone straight into the records for more information. If he and Ellie are still together, and that looks doubtful, it’s only because of the baby… … Continue reading →
Years of speaking only to the camera have blunted her sensory processing. No one will contradict her, for few survive the witch’s tongue, fashioned over time into a weapon of mass destruction. Submission has become an art form, a group … Continue reading →
In the end, there was no-one left to talk to. Where politics and pandemics failed to divide and isolate, cancel-culture and censorship succeeded. It had become easier not to talk though, for fear that someone, somewhere might hear you and … Continue reading →
