James Dorman
Stories (14/0)
Learn to Love Writing
September 2021: I became officially, unequivocally, a full-time professional writer. My rolling admin contract with the university I had been working at finally had an end date stamped onto it. That pretty much took the decision out of my hands. I would just let that day come and go, and when it came and went, I would be a full-time professional copywriter, because I literally had nothing else!
By James Dorman3 months ago in Writers
Standoff! At 30,000 Feet
He had hoped the feeling would pass if he just sat still and ignored it. But it hadn't. The activity towards the front of the plane and the dip he just felt in his stomach only made it worse. They were descending. They were descending, and he knew that now was the time. One of them would make a move.
By James Dormanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Grandfather Paradox
It was the summer of love. Well, that’s the way my grandmother always starts the story. It was in fact two years after the summer of love, but that’s not quite as catchy. The spirit of peace, free love and all that hippie shit was alive and well, anyway – it was Woodstock, early hours of Sunday August 17, 1969. My grandmother and grandfather ‘made it’ for the first time. In some of her tellings of the story they ‘went all the way’ for the first time, or some equally sickeningly quaint little metaphor. The key takeaway here is they fucked. This particular fuck would eventually result in my father greeting the world nine months later.
By James Dormanabout a year ago in Fiction
Sigil
He was picking at his left forearm again. He’d scratched it red raw, which granted wasn’t a massive change from the normal reddish-pink hue that patch of skin usually boasted. Slightly off-colour thanks to the laser removal of what was a rather clumsy tattoo of a barn owl, wings outstretched. It was an impressive piece, but clumsy. Needle went a bit too deep, ink a bit thick. So it wasn’t the cleanest removal. But then again, She wasn’t a tattoo artist. She was an artist for sure, but inexperienced with that particular medium. He was in fact only Her second canvas, Her first being Her own right forearm where sat an identical bird. That was so long ago now. A lifetime ago, before Rachel.
By James Dorman2 years ago in Fiction
Abandoned Lun- ... Lakehouse
Frozen. The lake is frozen. Well, I say lake – it’s more of a pond, really. But I suppose “pondside cabin retreat” is a bit less enticing as an advert. A bit harder of a sell; “pond” kind of strips away a lot of the romance, doesn’t it?
By James Dorman3 years ago in Fiction