Jasmine Hill Writes

Happy Birthday to me. Firmly in my thirties now and still don't feel a day older than 45. I've never felt my age and I always looked forward to packing on the years. Not because I was impatient to eat candy for dinner or leave on all the lights in the house. No, I wanted something far more valuable. You see, I had this strange notion that respect is a gift that comes with age. Age was the key to entering a world of people who would be your equals. When you put your key in the lock and turn the knob, you listen to and respect those behind that sacred door as much as they listen to and respect you. So each year, on my birthday, for many years, I waited with hand outstretched - eager to receive my "key". Surely at 18, 20, 21, 26, 30... And then I discovered it. The hard truth. Respect doesn't come with age. There is no key. For a time, I confess, I despaired. Not because I wanted people to think well of me but because I desperately needed people to list

So "The Trapping" is available today on Amazon in paperback and ebook format! And... the paperback giveaway drawing is tomorrow. There's still a chance to enter! But I have a confession to make. I've been keeping a secret about this book. Some of you might pick up on it if you read the dedication. I did not start writing this book to just be creepy and fun. I started writing it because, over the years, I've noticed that people that haven't thoroughly experienced injustice with respect to how they are perceived, have a very hard time imagining what it would be like. Now, I've always been a story-writer. From the moment I could string together misspelt words into quasi-comprehensive sentences, I was writing. I also have always been a huge believer in the power of words, characters and stories to evoke feeling and change. Don't misunderstand me. Walter Higgins doesn't just exist to spread a message. He exists because this is his st

Excerpt from "The Trapping" Charlie, who had been so intent on retelling his history, broke off and cocked his head. A hush had settled on the crowd. A single, fresh voice rose in beautiful, clear tones. Liza was sitting at the piano, playing and singing “I’ll be seeing you… …I’ll find you in the morning sun and when the night is through. I’ll be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you.” Not a soul present could help but think of someone they would never see again. Collectively, they paused and listened. And through each note and each word they mourned and wondered why life was so unfair. Walter made his way to his room early, mechanically changed and got into bed. The covers were scratchy, and they smelled funny – like old flowers.   The moon was bright enough to seep through the curtain and even though he avoided looking at it as he lay awake in his scratchy bed, he could still see her. He saw her everywhere. Her pink, freckled face scrunched in