You never quite know what a writer can do until you read one of their short stories, or, at least, that is what Dom believes.
He began reading short stories in 2019 and became engrossed with short tales by amazing novelists including P.D James, Sylvia Plath, Julia O’Faolain and more.
Dom finds that most of his creativity comes from dark and often disturbing places, with a lot of his short stories exploring the horrific side of human nature. His mum keeps telling him to write a nice story, and though he has tried, he hasn’t managed it yet.
If you are a fan of horror, dystopian worlds and blood-stained thrillers then get your teeth stuck into this lot.
Dom’s first published work The Right Honourable is also available to read on this page.
Dom is planning to release a short story at least once a month. If he hasn’t posted anything new recently why not head over to his Updates Blog? Or read excerpts from his upcoming debut novel; A Better Crown?
When Lee Price, newly dead husband, was outed as a woman-beater in an online article by the Evening Star, Harvey Ramsgate suddenly found himself at the centre of a movement of women who were not only lauding his journalism skills but touting him as a feminist figure of justice. He had dared to call out an abuser who just happened to be deceased. Harvey had said that tragic death did not abstain him from being held to account and Harvey was placed on a pedestal for doing so.
Read MoreI visited that forsaken place long ago. I silently crept down the sloping path to my own end, scared of the jagged blackness around me. I was eager to find him, apprehensive at our impending meeting, mystified by the tales that shrouded his visage.
Could he truly be what I had sought for so long? Could he truly envelop me in his crooked arms? Take me into the folds of his cloying breath?
Read More“Wait,” I try to get up, to stand but my limbs are jelly, boneless, my legs full of rocks, my hips weighed down on either side. I grunt, try to lift myself, try to drag my boy but I can’t move, can’t even lift my hands to pull away the blanket. My chest is tight, so tight, like its scrabbling at my heart, trying to squeeze it tight.
I gasp with pain. Sweat running down one temple, “tell me, what happened?”
But he’s already gone.
Read MoreJulie was sat on the table facing me, the open scenery of our garden rolling into the distance from the three French windows, when the central one was suddenly clouded by shadow.
It was him. Face pressed up against the window, a savagery in his features, like he was pawing at the glass, wild in his desperation to break through the barrier.
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