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?
I 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 MoreWho is my mystery saviour? Does she hate or love the story? Does she despise me or despise Eleanor Baron-Halls? Is Eleanor Baron-Halls a public disgrace or is she just a fun-loving woman letting her hair down? You decide. Either way, click on that story and I get a view. The more views it gets, the happier my editor is.
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.
Read More“I travelled from orphanage to orphanage for years. They are horrible, dirty places my dear boy, not unlike these cells. I performed baptisms to ensure that, when the children died, their souls would go to Heaven. Unfortunately orphans die all the time. Orphanages have little food, physicians visit infrequently and, I am very sorry to say, the conditions are awful.”
Read More
