JKJacobson is creating Fiction.
3
patrons
$6
per month
Hello, and welcome to my Patreon!

For those of you who are new to this sight, Patreon is a place where you can support the artists and other creative people you love with a flexible, monthly donation. Like a magazine that says ‘thank you’ and answers your questions. Easy as that.

As for me, My name is Jake Jacobson and I am a writer of fiction. I write whenever I have the time and energy to do so. I have loved stories and storytelling my whole life and I hope to make it my life and living.

I'm not the best at talking about my self, so here's an example of my work!
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
A vengeful wave broke over my head, colder than a Greenland winter. Mother always told me to wear more, thicker coats, bigger hats, heavier boots. I never did; the cold never bothered me much. The rigging tore at my hands, threatening to pull loose, and take my skin with it. Seven years on the hammer will give you calluses like nothing else can, or so I thought. A month on this damn ship has thickened my palms twice again and widened my arms the same.

And now, the storm passed and the sun bright, I stare at the darkening bandages wrapping my hands and the ugly, woolen quilt over my body. I’ll get it someday, I’ll be a sailor yet.
--
The angry sea is lashing at my feet. The ship is still afloat, if only just. Samuel's mushrooms are wearing off; I can tell by the screams. The sails are in tatters. I’m not worried though, we've already struck the beach. If only I knew which one it was. If only we still had a ship.
--
I lament you, oh Sweet Mercy. Your wood scattered across the sand like the scars you laced across my hands; pervasive yet hidden beneath the chaos. Of your rigging and deck have I built my home, as much a cannibal as a structure can be. But lo, I see your soul, your yearning heart, burning to set sail once more. Rest my friend. We must all be dashed upon the shores some day, and now you need not fear your end. Tell the reaper, if you see him, that I am coming and that I will not be so easy a crop to reap.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
I'm also working on a novel at the moment. Here's a little excerpt from the first chapter.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The sand in my shoes grinds against my skin, probably shredding my thin silk socks, as I skitter and slide across the windblown parking lot on the smooth soles of my loafers. The helmet vendor (I assume that’s what he would be called down here) looks like someone straight out of an american biker gang, beerbelly, black bandana, leather Harley Davidson jacket and all. His tent has flaps covering the sides, blocking the wind and, by association, the sand, from ruining his merch. “Good evening, sir.” His accent is distinctly local and clashes with his appearance rather unsettlingly. “Might I interest you in some of my fine wares?” Ya, he’s definitely making fun of me.

The helmets are all fire and skulls as far as I can see. None of them even the slightest bit my style. “I was hoping for something a little more…” I know this is going to sound lame, but I’m an idiot when I’m talking to people about anything but accounting. “...righteous.”

He laughs. He’s definitely laughing at me, it’s not hard to tell. “Do you want righteous because you wanna pretend to be the hero, or are you afraid of what your boring friends might think?” His voice goes from mocking to downright sinister. If this punk wants a fight he’ll get a fight.

My whole face flexes and I can't quite keep from raising my voice. “I want righteous because I am righteous and I don’t give a fuck what you think!” And this is probably the part where I get mobbed, robbed and murdered. Curse my short fuse.

He just stares at me for a while with a big, dumb smirk on his face, then he pulls a black curtain at the back of the stall aside. The curtain was concealing an artist’s workshop: racks of plain white helmets hang from the walls and several sit on a table in varying states of customization and painting. He takes a nearly finished helmet from his workstation and makes a show of examining it. Its a Suzuki-Samsung model with a top quality AMOLED vizor, it’s a similar model to mine but designed for racing rather than conference calls. It has a gold mirrored visor and the paintjob is royal purple under an artistic rendition of Joan of Arc with clockwork angel wings, and of course, she’s mostly naked. “This was a commission for someone else, but, if you have the money, maybe we can make a deal.” He grins a predatory grin as he looks at me and turns the helmet slightly so Joan’s exposed breasts are pointed directly at me.

So that’s the game then. Fine by me. “How much?”

He puts the helmet on the counter and all the mirth drains from his face. It’s business time. “Ten thousand; it is state of the art and custom painted.”

“But it’s unfinished.”

“Fifteen minutes, I will finish.”

“Okay, but I can’t display it anywhere, I would get fired, so it loses all value as a display piece.” Okay that was a lie, nobody can actually fire me. It would probably hurt my reputation though.

“Fair, but if you planned to display it you wouldn't be buying it last minute, racer eighty seven.” Of course the clipboard is linked to his stand.

“The vulgarity still lowers its value, and I don’t have time to have you change it.”

From the betting tent I can hear someone with a thick french accent arguing with the girls, asking who the hell number eighty seven is and why he’s riding the bike the guy apparently stole for himself. That'll be fun in a moment.

“Okay, eight.” Oh right, still haggling.

“Six.”

He smirks and leans against the counter. I don’t like it. “I tell you what. If you win tonight the helmet is yours, free.”

“If I lose?”

“One thousand for each bike in front of you.”

In all honesty it’s probably the prettiest helmet I've ever seen, and if this guy had a name it would likely go for fifty to a collector, but he doesn't, so it won't… unless I get it for ‘cheap’, make a name for him and then sell it for quadruple or more as a pre-fame piece. “Deal.” I offer my hand and we shake on it. The deal is made.

“I will find you when it is done.” He takes the helmet back to the table and plops down into a raggedy office chair, picking up one of the many air brushes, each with a different color, that surround him.

I can hear angry footsteps behind me, stomping on the cement and grinding across the sand. I pretend to examine one of the helmets, all skulls and flames, taking it off the hook. “Hay, suit!” A little bit closer please. “What the fuck you doin drivin my rig, huh?”

I spin on my heels and bash him across the face with the helmet. There's a wet crunch, not just from the impact, and he goes down hard. I place the helmet gently on the counter and take two steps to loom above him. His jaw is broken, very broken, but he's still conscious. “Maybe don't steal the next one!” He’s clearly terrified. He probably didn't expect a thirty five year old white guy in an unreasonably expensive business suit to fight back at all, let alone drop him in one hit. Too bad for him I’m actually a closet badass.

I turn back to the helmet vendor, he’s staring at me with my helmet in one hand and an airbrush in the other, a shocked expression on his face. I turn the helmet so the bloody side is facing him. “Sorry, I didn't wanna get punk blood on my suit.”
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
I hope you enjoyed those little examples of my work. I also do fan fiction from time to time when the mood strikes.

If you're feeling generous, I would be extatic to have you as a patron. If not, tell a friend!
Tiers
Sleeper
$1 or more per month
  • Access to the comment feed.
  • Event and release announcements
  • Occasional flash fiction
Follower
$5 or more per month
Access to the comment feed.
Event and release announcements.
Occasional flash fiction
And
  • Free PDFs of future completed works.
Leader
$15 or more per month
Access to the comment feed.
Event and release announcements.
Occasional flash fiction
Free PDFs of future completed works.
And
  • View and comment on works-in-progress. (In google docs).
Editor
$35 or more per month
Access to the comment feed.
Event and release announcements.
Occasional flash fiction
Free PDFs of future completed works.
View and comment on works-in-progress. (In google docs).
And
  • Monthly patron chats.
  • You will be credited in a dedicated section of anything I publish.
Goals
$6 of $300 per month
Once we get here, I’ll be able to afford more, higher quality, food. More food means more energy, and more writing. Nice and simple.
1 of 5
Hello, and welcome to my Patreon!

For those of you who are new to this sight, Patreon is a place where you can support the artists and other creative people you love with a flexible, monthly donation. Like a magazine that says ‘thank you’ and answers your questions. Easy as that.

As for me, My name is Jake Jacobson and I am a writer of fiction. I write whenever I have the time and energy to do so. I have loved stories and storytelling my whole life and I hope to make it my life and living.

I'm not the best at talking about my self, so here's an example of my work!
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
A vengeful wave broke over my head, colder than a Greenland winter. Mother always told me to wear more, thicker coats, bigger hats, heavier boots. I never did; the cold never bothered me much. The rigging tore at my hands, threatening to pull loose, and take my skin with it. Seven years on the hammer will give you calluses like nothing else can, or so I thought. A month on this damn ship has thickened my palms twice again and widened my arms the same.

And now, the storm passed and the sun bright, I stare at the darkening bandages wrapping my hands and the ugly, woolen quilt over my body. I’ll get it someday, I’ll be a sailor yet.
--
The angry sea is lashing at my feet. The ship is still afloat, if only just. Samuel's mushrooms are wearing off; I can tell by the screams. The sails are in tatters. I’m not worried though, we've already struck the beach. If only I knew which one it was. If only we still had a ship.
--
I lament you, oh Sweet Mercy. Your wood scattered across the sand like the scars you laced across my hands; pervasive yet hidden beneath the chaos. Of your rigging and deck have I built my home, as much a cannibal as a structure can be. But lo, I see your soul, your yearning heart, burning to set sail once more. Rest my friend. We must all be dashed upon the shores some day, and now you need not fear your end. Tell the reaper, if you see him, that I am coming and that I will not be so easy a crop to reap.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
I'm also working on a novel at the moment. Here's a little excerpt from the first chapter.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The sand in my shoes grinds against my skin, probably shredding my thin silk socks, as I skitter and slide across the windblown parking lot on the smooth soles of my loafers. The helmet vendor (I assume that’s what he would be called down here) looks like someone straight out of an american biker gang, beerbelly, black bandana, leather Harley Davidson jacket and all. His tent has flaps covering the sides, blocking the wind and, by association, the sand, from ruining his merch. “Good evening, sir.” His accent is distinctly local and clashes with his appearance rather unsettlingly. “Might I interest you in some of my fine wares?” Ya, he’s definitely making fun of me.

The helmets are all fire and skulls as far as I can see. None of them even the slightest bit my style. “I was hoping for something a little more…” I know this is going to sound lame, but I’m an idiot when I’m talking to people about anything but accounting. “...righteous.”

He laughs. He’s definitely laughing at me, it’s not hard to tell. “Do you want righteous because you wanna pretend to be the hero, or are you afraid of what your boring friends might think?” His voice goes from mocking to downright sinister. If this punk wants a fight he’ll get a fight.

My whole face flexes and I can't quite keep from raising my voice. “I want righteous because I am righteous and I don’t give a fuck what you think!” And this is probably the part where I get mobbed, robbed and murdered. Curse my short fuse.

He just stares at me for a while with a big, dumb smirk on his face, then he pulls a black curtain at the back of the stall aside. The curtain was concealing an artist’s workshop: racks of plain white helmets hang from the walls and several sit on a table in varying states of customization and painting. He takes a nearly finished helmet from his workstation and makes a show of examining it. Its a Suzuki-Samsung model with a top quality AMOLED vizor, it’s a similar model to mine but designed for racing rather than conference calls. It has a gold mirrored visor and the paintjob is royal purple under an artistic rendition of Joan of Arc with clockwork angel wings, and of course, she’s mostly naked. “This was a commission for someone else, but, if you have the money, maybe we can make a deal.” He grins a predatory grin as he looks at me and turns the helmet slightly so Joan’s exposed breasts are pointed directly at me.

So that’s the game then. Fine by me. “How much?”

He puts the helmet on the counter and all the mirth drains from his face. It’s business time. “Ten thousand; it is state of the art and custom painted.”

“But it’s unfinished.”

“Fifteen minutes, I will finish.”

“Okay, but I can’t display it anywhere, I would get fired, so it loses all value as a display piece.” Okay that was a lie, nobody can actually fire me. It would probably hurt my reputation though.

“Fair, but if you planned to display it you wouldn't be buying it last minute, racer eighty seven.” Of course the clipboard is linked to his stand.

“The vulgarity still lowers its value, and I don’t have time to have you change it.”

From the betting tent I can hear someone with a thick french accent arguing with the girls, asking who the hell number eighty seven is and why he’s riding the bike the guy apparently stole for himself. That'll be fun in a moment.

“Okay, eight.” Oh right, still haggling.

“Six.”

He smirks and leans against the counter. I don’t like it. “I tell you what. If you win tonight the helmet is yours, free.”

“If I lose?”

“One thousand for each bike in front of you.”

In all honesty it’s probably the prettiest helmet I've ever seen, and if this guy had a name it would likely go for fifty to a collector, but he doesn't, so it won't… unless I get it for ‘cheap’, make a name for him and then sell it for quadruple or more as a pre-fame piece. “Deal.” I offer my hand and we shake on it. The deal is made.

“I will find you when it is done.” He takes the helmet back to the table and plops down into a raggedy office chair, picking up one of the many air brushes, each with a different color, that surround him.

I can hear angry footsteps behind me, stomping on the cement and grinding across the sand. I pretend to examine one of the helmets, all skulls and flames, taking it off the hook. “Hay, suit!” A little bit closer please. “What the fuck you doin drivin my rig, huh?”

I spin on my heels and bash him across the face with the helmet. There's a wet crunch, not just from the impact, and he goes down hard. I place the helmet gently on the counter and take two steps to loom above him. His jaw is broken, very broken, but he's still conscious. “Maybe don't steal the next one!” He’s clearly terrified. He probably didn't expect a thirty five year old white guy in an unreasonably expensive business suit to fight back at all, let alone drop him in one hit. Too bad for him I’m actually a closet badass.

I turn back to the helmet vendor, he’s staring at me with my helmet in one hand and an airbrush in the other, a shocked expression on his face. I turn the helmet so the bloody side is facing him. “Sorry, I didn't wanna get punk blood on my suit.”
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
I hope you enjoyed those little examples of my work. I also do fan fiction from time to time when the mood strikes.

If you're feeling generous, I would be extatic to have you as a patron. If not, tell a friend!

Recent posts by JKJacobson

Tiers
Sleeper
$1 or more per month
  • Access to the comment feed.
  • Event and release announcements
  • Occasional flash fiction
Follower
$5 or more per month
Access to the comment feed.
Event and release announcements.
Occasional flash fiction
And
  • Free PDFs of future completed works.
Leader
$15 or more per month
Access to the comment feed.
Event and release announcements.
Occasional flash fiction
Free PDFs of future completed works.
And
  • View and comment on works-in-progress. (In google docs).
Editor
$35 or more per month
Access to the comment feed.
Event and release announcements.
Occasional flash fiction
Free PDFs of future completed works.
View and comment on works-in-progress. (In google docs).
And
  • Monthly patron chats.
  • You will be credited in a dedicated section of anything I publish.