Rhys Barnard Jones
Bio
Writing and hiking the mountains of Wales.
One half of Rickards and Jones!
Check out Morgan Christy Rickards on Vocal!
Find us on Instagram @rickardsandjones and visit rickardsandjones.com
Stories (6/0)
Six-Shooters
Spurs sang among the dust, kicked up by weather-worn boots. Some of the townsfolk looked on from behind boarded windows. Others peeked round the corners of ramshackle lean-tos. All were silent. The whites of their eyes danced, for the stranger had finally appeared. One minute to high noon.
By Rhys Barnard Jones6 days ago in Fiction
Testimony
[water damage, indecipherable] ...morass made for poor travel, as my men quickly found out. The wains and wagons were the first to become grounded in the mires, sinking with a sickening wet squelch as they fell further into the muck. Many were left behind. We could not risk waiting to recover them, nor their crews.
By Rhys Barnard Jones3 years ago in Horror
They Who Chase the Thief
The thief could not recall how long they had chased him. Pale phantasms stalked his every step, clawing and relentless. Weariness was unknown to them, a failing of mortal men, faults in the flesh and the mind. Inured to qualms and weakness, they pressed on implacable in their grim venery.
By Rhys Barnard Jones3 years ago in Criminal
On Hunting
The Hunter squinted at the sunlight playing upon the rippling water of the lake. Big game made it their watery home, he knew, hidden among the seiches, snake-necked dlonghos and the great mottled Poid-poids occasionally breached with their grey-green fins. Rarnh sat on his haunches with his spear athwart his sinewy shoulders.
By Rhys Barnard Jones3 years ago in Horror
Errant Knight
He leant on his shield, the battered metal of the rim digging into the stony ground. Sweat stung his eyes and his shoulders burned from strain. Aways from him, the knave stood readjusting his grip. Both wore lobstered steel, but his foeman wore his with the easy grace of a younger man. I am not such a youth anymore. Damn him!
By Rhys Barnard Jones3 years ago in Humans
Lord of the Green
The Lord of the Green felt the pine-needles crunch beneath his toes. The trees stirred from a slow slumber. The smell of decay hung heavy between them, the proud oaks and skeletal birch and withered snags all waking to feel his comforting presence. Mouthless, they sang their kyrie for him, the song only he could hear. A melody without end.
By Rhys Barnard Jones3 years ago in Horror
