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Jasper Jay

Snarky Gay Stories in Worlds Unreal

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What is a Better Platform for Fiction Writers? Wattpad VS WordPress

While WordPress has been my main platform since 2015 I have had some issues maintaining a posting longevity. Due to the way searches appear on WordPress it… Read more “What is a Better Platform for Fiction Writers? Wattpad VS WordPress”

June 1, 2018September 9, 2019 by TheGayJasperJay

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I loved staying with Aki and learning all about how to take care of bee hives! He took me to this swimming hole several times and it was an absolute highlight. I love getting back to nature and playing in the water, reconnecting with what makes me happy. #beautifulriver #beautifuldays #bluesky #🇯🇵 #swimminghole #backtonature #naturelovers

Sometimes to writing flows and sometimes it doesn’t. It’s easy to get overwhelmed, or have writers block but more than that I find myself making new projects. Productive Procrastination has been the death of my writing habit, insisting that I need to do any number of things before I sit back down to write. Moreover I haven’t been giving myself enough time to think. Keeping busy, listening to podcasts while I work, relax, travel it’s been keeping my creativity at bay. Who would have guessed not having WiFi would help me be more productive? This month I’m making a stable place to launch myself off from. #amwriting #writersofinstagram #focus #creativelifestyle #creativebusiness #journaling #creativejournaling #productivity #productivitytips

Ahh I’m going to miss the tranquility of this place. I’ve been super productive, learned a lot, and tired myself out everyday. It feels nice to breath again. #ricefield #tranquility #hardwork #breathe

The mask maker sits in the dark of her home. Though the sun has not yet set the shutters are closed and the light from the flame dances over her wrinkled hands. Wood flakes pile at her feet with each stroke of the blade. This one will be perfect. The sound of the wood being sheared away is an even tempo, consistent and mesmerizing. Her eyes never leave the smooth surface, not for the knock at the door or the wind that slips through the rafters and rifles through the flames. The room is cold but she doesn’t notice. Not until the work is done. She sets the tool on the floor and raises her mask into the light. It must be smooth and even, symmetrical and smiling. This one has a small nose and full lips. The eyes are upturned at the corners to a humorous degree. Yes. This time it is right. She hastens to the table and there she pulls the paint, the brush, the paper. It’s all laid out so careful before her skilled hand. Sparrows, it must be sparrows playfully dancing in the summers breeze. It’s nearing dawn. The paint must dry and mustn’t crack. But the old lady is eager. Her frail yellowed nails pull the elastic from behind her head. She hold her current mask from the chin and lifts. The tape and staples that once held it on tug her sagging skin. A trickle of blood runs from her cheek. She doesn’t notice and doesn’t mind. The mask is splintered and the paint worn. It was imperfect, the eyes were set too high, the birch, too many knots. So it is discarded, falling into the pile of lace and ribbons, where oak, pine, and mahogany rot. The maggots take to their new food. She turns away and will not look back. It is easy for her to attach the elastic now. She slips on her mask and smiles for the first time this night. Though it is no longer night. She glides across the floor towards the door to greet the light of the new day. Eager to stand before the world again. But as she opens the door, there her daughter stands. Now 20 years older. It is as if all her work was for not. The young girls eyes easily cast through the wood and they see the beautiful hag underneath. Shattered, splintered and broken, just like her masks, but made of real flesh and so much more enchanting.

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