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Well, it happened again…

We now have a brand new year to stuff up!

Hooray!

To be honest, getting through these past two years has been like wading through mud.
It feels like we are on a rinse and repeat cycle.
For those of us in health care it is like being Sisyphus.
Lots of pushing uphill, only to get flattened when the rock rolls back down.

However, we live to fight (and write) another day. I have a few things on the go.
Some short stories, progress on both books, and other fiendish plans are afoot.
Meanwhile, I shall drink more coffee and buy another notebook.
I’m sure I will find a use for this one.

“Don’t quote me on that”

Rachel K Jones, 2022

~ Rachel

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From my current work in progress

This is a little snippet from my upcoming work.
It’s the Prologue. (Subject to change!)

I hope it hooks you in…..

Prologue

The air disappeared from the room, ripping itself from Donna’s lungs. She gutted and gasped. Her mouth yapping and yawing as she drowned in the brightly lit space. He had taken all the oxygen with him. His last act was to condemn her to an excruciating suffocation. The vacuum she now inhabited sucked her soul through her chest. No resistance came from her ribs. They gave in to the stronger force.

She watched as he became a decreasing smudge in the dim hallway. Surrounded, as usual, by those who worshipped him and his “tremendous courage”. They were all liars and thieves. He pretended it was “his considered decision to leave, nothing personal, a hard thought out conclusion” when it was time to move on.

She knew a lie when she heard one. She recognised a coward’s exit when she saw one. She realised that their whole relationship was so meaningless to him he just could just leave when he felt it was time to go.
The bastard.
The lying, shitting bastard.

© Rachel Jones 2021
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Musings on Satan’s Frozen Bottom

"The Devil skating when Hell freezes over" Artist: John Collier,

At the end of Inferno, Dante and Virgil find Satan trapped up to his waist in the frozen pit of hell.

I came across this picture and it sparked a little scene in my head.

Ice skating demons turning up for work.

“Mornin’ Boss,” said Steve. “Get you a coffee?”
Satan yawned and wished he could scratch his own arse. “This bloody ice!” he roared.

Somewhere, below his Satanic Majesty’s frozen navel, the arse-scratching officer gave the Foul-One’s buttocks a rake over with the designated bum-scritch wotsit.

Satan purred in the manner of a reanimated, soul-sucking feral cat. He closed his amber eyes, stretching his leathery neck and shoulders. His terrible rictus masqueraded as a perverse and disturbing smile. He sighed his grave-dirt tension into the freezing air.

“Steve!” The Father of Pestilence called out to the demon at the coffee pot, “Ill have a long-black; six hundred and sixty-six sugars. Thanks.”

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Who on earth does she think she is?

Rachel Jones is a real human being, despite there being some scientific evidence to the contrary.

Rachel’s passion for words began in early childhood. Her father crafted her a bed out of a bookcase. This magical place was where she first dreamt of writing her own stories.

She has published poetry and prose in different media around the world.
As would be expected, she is an active member of her local writers’ group in the Northern Territory, Australia.
Her preferred genre is comedic horror. She has yet to find anyone that wants to read it.

She is passionate about her current role as a hospital nurse in a small town.
There are dogs, cats, and gnomes in her household who provide a source of inspiration for her writing.
Rachel is married to Steve, together they have a plan to fix the world.
There are still some seats available on that particular bus.

She suggests you bring a hat, just in case.

Rachel can be contacted at info@rachelkjones.me or you may find her just Twitting about @JonesyWriteNow

Whose duck is that?