Dominick R. Domingo's Blog, page 6
December 13, 2016
Just a reminder to pls check out ( and order as gifts if ...
Just a reminder to pls check out ( and order as gifts if you can! 
:-) ) the two new collections I now have online: Far From the Thick of Things (Magical Realism) and Where the Godless Folk Live (upmarket literary). To put myself in eeeexcellent company, the magical Realism is in the vein of Neil Gaiman, and the literary voice ( Where the Godless...) is hugely influenced by Davy Rothbart, Augusten Burroughs, Junot Diaz, and John Biscello, if you know them. And of course, going waaaay back, Tennessee Williams! Pls check out the collections:
:-) ) the two new collections I now have online: Far From the Thick of Things (Magical Realism) and Where the Godless Folk Live (upmarket literary). To put myself in eeeexcellent company, the magical Realism is in the vein of Neil Gaiman, and the literary voice ( Where the Godless...) is hugely influenced by Davy Rothbart, Augusten Burroughs, Junot Diaz, and John Biscello, if you know them. And of course, going waaaay back, Tennessee Williams! Pls check out the collections: 
December 6, 2016
Check out an excerpt from The Nameless Prince audiobook!F...
Check out an excerpt from The Nameless Prince audiobook!
Featuring renowned voice-over artist Bonnie Perkinson
Bonnieperkinson.com
Featuring renowned voice-over artist Bonnie Perkinson
Bonnieperkinson.com
November 30, 2016
HOLIDAY PROMO- Dominick Domingo Fiction!
Pick up The Nameless Prince (Ebook or signed paperback) Makes a GREAT gift for the holidays!
The sequel, ‘The ROYAL TRINITY’ launches in April, so perfect timing to get up to speed with Book One.
Plus, two more COLLECTIONS of Short Fiction are available. The new collections are NOT YA Fantasy like the nameless prince. They are Upmarket Literary Fiction (more adult content…)
Please check out and
The NAMELESS PRINCE
WHERE the GODLESS FOLK LIVE (a collection of Godforsaken Short Literary Fiction)
FAR FROM the THICK of THINGS (a whimsical collection of Magical Realism)
by visiting this LINK:
The sequel, ‘The ROYAL TRINITY’ launches in April, so perfect timing to get up to speed with Book One.
Plus, two more COLLECTIONS of Short Fiction are available. The new collections are NOT YA Fantasy like the nameless prince. They are Upmarket Literary Fiction (more adult content…)
Please check out and
The NAMELESS PRINCE
WHERE the GODLESS FOLK LIVE (a collection of Godforsaken Short Literary Fiction)
FAR FROM the THICK of THINGS (a whimsical collection of Magical Realism)
by visiting this LINK:
November 28, 2016
TWO NEW COLLECTIONS! Check them out!
ORDER or read more about Where the Godless Folk Live!A dark and satirical collection of short literary fiction.
ORDER or read more about Far From the Thick of Things!
A whimsical collection of Magical Realism.
THREE NEW COLLECTIONS! Check them out!
Order or Read More About JESUS SHOES!A humorous and irreverent collection of Narrative Nonfiction Essays.
ORDER or read more about Where the Godless Folk Live!A dark and satirical collection of short literary fiction.
ORDER or read more about Far From the Thick of Things!
A whimsical collection of Magical Realism.
October 30, 2016
The pages of Far From the Thick of Things drip with...
The pages of Far From the Thick of Things drip with incongruous, dreamlike images: a clever trollup braving an earthquake on a London street, a garage sale genie who takes wishes instead of granting them, a destitute theater actress who meets her former self in a dark alley. It’s these absurd juxtapositions—the extraordinary in the ordinary—that reveal the mechanics of the universe, as well as the inner-workings of our own hearts. 83, 535-word Far From the Thick of Things uses language itself to reveal the human condition, but only the spaces between can breathe metaphysical truth. Equal parts whimsy and poignancy, this collection of short stories is populated with colorful, diverse characters. We meet them at different stages of life, observing the dots that connect over time, weaving a mysterious tapestry of destiny, free will, and complete randomness. Some of the eccentric characters are cuddly, others prickly and rough around the edges. But all are—like us—redeemable.
Far From the Thick of Things Contents:
The Trollup, the Hobo and the DandyThe quaint Chelsae neighborhood Ruby Fuller has called home for half-a-century has grown up; it’s nearly unrecognizable. But a series of rare events, including an unprecedented earthquake that rattles her London street, prove that what matters is still intact.
The CovenantA heart attack at 40 has Phil Jacobs running. But he quickly learns it’s not death he’s running from; it’s his own nature.
The RideSuburbs are Godforsaken—Grant knows it to be true. It’ sheer boredom that makes that one fateful ride—to score shrooms—one he will never forget, and one he will never speak about.
The Dead EndA destitute theater actress encounters her former self in a dark alley and is reminded what her heart is capable of.
The Distance Between StarsA strange antique telescope purchased at a garage sale tempts an aging astronomer with the key to true happiness. In order to have it, he must give up the few things he loves.
CozyThe mysterious Victorian home that has been transplanted into a suburban neighborhood invites a mishmash of childhood imagination with adult gossip.
CirqueAn orphan is abducted from Wonderlodge Home for Children by a band of clowns, but only for a week. The experience shapes him, long after the delightful and sinister clowns are stuffed back into the trunk from which they came.
The Sculptor’s MuseA sculptor succeeds at soliciting perfection from the universe, in the form of his first masterpiece. The problem is, he falls in love with it.
The MarrionetteThe enigmatic marionette given to Jack by his eccentric bohemian aunt must eventually be tossed into the basement. But it continues, from darkness, to pull strings in the Hollister Home.
DesireBen 35-D, an undesirable, is jaded by constant terrorist bombings. But an encounter with celebrity makes him aspire to more.
VisionA young art student finds himself chatting with a blind patron before his favorite painting, a hundred year-old impressionist masterpiece. Only after the two part ways does the boy realize, beyond reason, the man he’s been chatting with is the artist himself.
Code of SilenceA naïve rodeo cowboy comes to Hollywood with stars in his eyes, but quickly learns the motion picture industry is in bed with the mob. He finds himself framed by the D.A.’s office, the press, and the clergy—each with its own code of silence.
The Salt FlatsIgnorance prevails in the tiny desert town of Johannesburg; all it spawns are bible thumpers and tweakers. Seven year-old Grant must learn the tough lesson that we’re all just kicking the dog, from the eighteen year-old his Ma’s taken up with to that snake they’ve got in a fish tank in the living room. It refuses to eat the poor mouse that’s been in there a week, prefers to terrorize it instead.
OutpostA train-hopping drifter settles in a tiny roadside outpost where a chance encounter brings him face to face with his own haunted past, and the doomed love affair that has left him emotionally barren.
The FortIn an attempt to escape the deluge of adolescence, 14 year-old Rick spends a summer at his uncle’s diner in the desert. What he learns about life and himself will have to be locked away, but treasured like the desert diamond he finds in the abandoned mine shaft behind the roadside diner.
Be sure to scroll down to Older Posts to read stories!
October 24, 2016
Need a quick read and a good laugh? Here's my Solas Award...
Need a quick read and a good laugh? Here's my Solas Award winning story 'L'Epiphanie:'
Traveler's Tales/SOLAS Award for Travel Humor
Traveler's Tales/SOLAS Award for Travel Humor
October 23, 2016
Just discovered this online during the ever-dangerous Goo...
Just discovered this online during the ever-dangerous Googling of one's own name ( for other reasons- seeing if certain career-related things were linking up to others. ) So honored! This is one of the rare cases where they even chose the right images- ones I'm proud of!!
ConceptArtWorld article
Scroll down for stories!
October 19, 2016
In prog ( posting as backup...)The Curmudgeon ...
In prog ( posting as backup...)
The Curmudgeon
When Dale Linton was in the first grade, Miss Comstock read a picture book aloud that would stick with him for the rest of his days, though its title and author would not. It told the tale of a lonely old man who walked to the mailbox every day, a considerable distance, only to find it empty. The journey to and from was a formidable task at his advanced age, the rewards always scant. At the tender age of six, Dale found the story sad, no doubt the desired effect, being a cautionary tale of sorts. But more than that, he found it haunting. The good part of a century later, he would become that man. He’d tell himself it was not because he was unloved, or because old age rendered you invisible and therefore forgotten; it was that the world had changed. No one used the post anymore. No one. Only advertisers. It’s a funny thing how the images that stick with you are the ones that will come to define your life, though you have no way of knowing it at the time. Still, they haunt the corners of your psyche, like red flags thrown into your path by some future self. When Dale was nine, the family dog had birthed a litter of eight puppies. Exhausted from licking up the afterbirth of the first seven, Flicka, a black lab, ignored the eighth, would have left it to suffocate on mucous or placenta or whatever the muck was, had his older sister not stepped in and cleared an airway with her finger. The image of the silently gasping pup would remain indelible. Only years later would he connect it with the fact that he himself was the youngest of his mother’s brood, that he’d always felt neglected, that nature made sure runts are always left to die. At eleven, he learned a new word in English class: jaded. He vowed never to become it, even wrote the promise down. He saw jaded in many, if not all, adults: the vacant look in the eye that said all that mattered had been stolen over time. Oh, he hadn’t the life experience to understand the anatomy of disillusionment, how it chipped away at ideals; he only knew he’d never let it happen to him. He would never become his father. He kept the self-made promise for a good portion of his long life, preserved his innocence—that’s what it was, after all, this belief in principle—against all odds. At seventeen, he finished his first sci-fi novella. He’d started plenty of ideas, scrawling them on the corners of notebooks or rumpled napkins, even outlined some. But this was the first he’d carried to completion. The novella was a parable—even with little-to-no literary training he knew as much—about an old man who scarcely recognized the world around him. Cities had expanded exponentially, outgrowing the continents and forcing man to develop the ocean floor. Trapped in a biodome simulation, the old man was left to reminisce fondly about what once was, recalling vast skies spotted with buttermilk clouds, the licking of chocolate-raspberry ice cream cones under a deepening twilight spangled with awakening stars. He dwelt on time-smattered tableaus of carnivals and cotton candy, Ferris wheels and joyously nauseating teacups and somersaults across stickery summer grass. Piles of fallen autumns leaves and the smell of pollywog puddles and honeysuckle and innocence. It was all a metaphor, of course. At fifty, Dale became convinced time was an illusion, that the same soul resided behind the eyes of that six year-old who identified with the lonely old man and his empty mailbox, and the nine year-old gasping for puppy breath, and those that had just begun to droop with gravity. At sixty, he admitted to himself he’d become all he once vowed not to. It’s then he began to drink. To numb the realization that despite all the self-talk, all his efforts to preserve innocence, life had turned out to be cruel once the powers of self-invention had worn off, the stardust of youth. The alcohol kept some of his regrets at bay, but not all. He found himself lamenting the past, wondering how his life might have turned out had things been slightly different: a microscopic detail here, a circumstance there. He rode the train daily, gazing at young lovers, hands clasped, or long-married couples with a rich history and likely children and grandchildren, and longing for what he’d not been afforded. What if his first love had been stronger, had believed a bit more in love and not caved to the doubts of the world? What if the man had not let those voices in, as if through cracks in a biodome? What if his own parents had held him back? He’d been born in November, so he was younger and smaller than the other kids, all through school. They should have held him back, instead of reinforcing the feeling he was a runt. Today, Dale was watching a man and his son across the aisle from his own seat on the train. The car rattled across uneven track, past the autumn-tinged thickets of upstate New York. But it was all a blur; the only thing in crisp focus was the man and the boy, fixed amid a flurry of diffused strokes and umber shadows. The boy was all of six, tiny legs dangling from the cracked vinyl seat. He was dressed in soccer gear; the season was nearly over and the two were headed home from practice. Tiny orange socks were pulled up over tiny brown calves, and the boy held a soccer ball against his side lest it escape with all the rattling. But his other miniscule hand was in his father’s, delicately tracing fleshy palms, imbedding tiny fingernails in callused flesh. There was no need to hold hands; the boy was not at risk of escaping with the soccer ball. Nor were the two on the high seas during a squall, in danger of being separated by searing tides moving in opposite directions. Still, the boy’s hand traced his father’s, heroic in scale by comparison, like that of a bronze Rodin sculpture. The boy’s unflinching gaze was riveted up at his father, who returned it with equal attention.
The whole scene was foreign to Dale, but something about it keyed into his longing. Oh, he knew his father’s generation did their best, defined fatherhood as providing a roof and putting dinner on the table and little more. Maybe the occasional brandishing of a belt to fulfill the role of authoritarian. Children
The Curmudgeon
When Dale Linton was in the first grade, Miss Comstock read a picture book aloud that would stick with him for the rest of his days, though its title and author would not. It told the tale of a lonely old man who walked to the mailbox every day, a considerable distance, only to find it empty. The journey to and from was a formidable task at his advanced age, the rewards always scant. At the tender age of six, Dale found the story sad, no doubt the desired effect, being a cautionary tale of sorts. But more than that, he found it haunting. The good part of a century later, he would become that man. He’d tell himself it was not because he was unloved, or because old age rendered you invisible and therefore forgotten; it was that the world had changed. No one used the post anymore. No one. Only advertisers. It’s a funny thing how the images that stick with you are the ones that will come to define your life, though you have no way of knowing it at the time. Still, they haunt the corners of your psyche, like red flags thrown into your path by some future self. When Dale was nine, the family dog had birthed a litter of eight puppies. Exhausted from licking up the afterbirth of the first seven, Flicka, a black lab, ignored the eighth, would have left it to suffocate on mucous or placenta or whatever the muck was, had his older sister not stepped in and cleared an airway with her finger. The image of the silently gasping pup would remain indelible. Only years later would he connect it with the fact that he himself was the youngest of his mother’s brood, that he’d always felt neglected, that nature made sure runts are always left to die. At eleven, he learned a new word in English class: jaded. He vowed never to become it, even wrote the promise down. He saw jaded in many, if not all, adults: the vacant look in the eye that said all that mattered had been stolen over time. Oh, he hadn’t the life experience to understand the anatomy of disillusionment, how it chipped away at ideals; he only knew he’d never let it happen to him. He would never become his father. He kept the self-made promise for a good portion of his long life, preserved his innocence—that’s what it was, after all, this belief in principle—against all odds. At seventeen, he finished his first sci-fi novella. He’d started plenty of ideas, scrawling them on the corners of notebooks or rumpled napkins, even outlined some. But this was the first he’d carried to completion. The novella was a parable—even with little-to-no literary training he knew as much—about an old man who scarcely recognized the world around him. Cities had expanded exponentially, outgrowing the continents and forcing man to develop the ocean floor. Trapped in a biodome simulation, the old man was left to reminisce fondly about what once was, recalling vast skies spotted with buttermilk clouds, the licking of chocolate-raspberry ice cream cones under a deepening twilight spangled with awakening stars. He dwelt on time-smattered tableaus of carnivals and cotton candy, Ferris wheels and joyously nauseating teacups and somersaults across stickery summer grass. Piles of fallen autumns leaves and the smell of pollywog puddles and honeysuckle and innocence. It was all a metaphor, of course. At fifty, Dale became convinced time was an illusion, that the same soul resided behind the eyes of that six year-old who identified with the lonely old man and his empty mailbox, and the nine year-old gasping for puppy breath, and those that had just begun to droop with gravity. At sixty, he admitted to himself he’d become all he once vowed not to. It’s then he began to drink. To numb the realization that despite all the self-talk, all his efforts to preserve innocence, life had turned out to be cruel once the powers of self-invention had worn off, the stardust of youth. The alcohol kept some of his regrets at bay, but not all. He found himself lamenting the past, wondering how his life might have turned out had things been slightly different: a microscopic detail here, a circumstance there. He rode the train daily, gazing at young lovers, hands clasped, or long-married couples with a rich history and likely children and grandchildren, and longing for what he’d not been afforded. What if his first love had been stronger, had believed a bit more in love and not caved to the doubts of the world? What if the man had not let those voices in, as if through cracks in a biodome? What if his own parents had held him back? He’d been born in November, so he was younger and smaller than the other kids, all through school. They should have held him back, instead of reinforcing the feeling he was a runt. Today, Dale was watching a man and his son across the aisle from his own seat on the train. The car rattled across uneven track, past the autumn-tinged thickets of upstate New York. But it was all a blur; the only thing in crisp focus was the man and the boy, fixed amid a flurry of diffused strokes and umber shadows. The boy was all of six, tiny legs dangling from the cracked vinyl seat. He was dressed in soccer gear; the season was nearly over and the two were headed home from practice. Tiny orange socks were pulled up over tiny brown calves, and the boy held a soccer ball against his side lest it escape with all the rattling. But his other miniscule hand was in his father’s, delicately tracing fleshy palms, imbedding tiny fingernails in callused flesh. There was no need to hold hands; the boy was not at risk of escaping with the soccer ball. Nor were the two on the high seas during a squall, in danger of being separated by searing tides moving in opposite directions. Still, the boy’s hand traced his father’s, heroic in scale by comparison, like that of a bronze Rodin sculpture. The boy’s unflinching gaze was riveted up at his father, who returned it with equal attention.
The whole scene was foreign to Dale, but something about it keyed into his longing. Oh, he knew his father’s generation did their best, defined fatherhood as providing a roof and putting dinner on the table and little more. Maybe the occasional brandishing of a belt to fulfill the role of authoritarian. Children
Follow Dominick R. Domingo on GoodReads for new releases,...
Follow Dominick R. Domingo on GoodReads for new releases, including the upcoming launch of The Royal Trinity, sequel to The Nameless Prince!
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