J. S. Wade
Bio
Since reading Tolkien in Middle school, I have been fascinated with creating, reading, and hearing art through story’s and music. I am a perpetual student of writing and life.
J. S. Wade owns all work contained here.
Stories (245/0)
The Altered Sands of the Soul. Top Story - February 2023.
Hobnailed shoes pinched my feet as I pushed through the Mississippi farm fields toward the greenhouse behind the antebellum mansion. My quest for destruction had brought me back in time one hundred and ninety years to the year 1833. If I could destroy the literal seeds of slavery at its root, I could change the history of the world and millions of lives.
By J. S. Wadeabout a year ago in Fiction
Jolly Roger
Seawater filled my mouth, and I swallowed the warm green brine of the Caribbean as another wave buried me. The Sweet Lucy's main mast, flying the skull and crossbones, appeared over a swell. With the next, the pirate schooner disappeared out of sight. "Fun in the tropics," Joey, my friend, had said, "let's play pirate like the days of old on the high seas, drink rum, and sing sea shanties." He sang and danced a jig. But when th' Black Baller gets clear o' th' land. W-ay! Hey? Blow th' man down! "Come on, Jolly, let's have some fun."
By J. S. Wadeabout a year ago in Fiction
Remember Me. Top Story - January 2023.
Matthew I hate mailboxes. In days past, they brought personal news along with bills and advertisements. A handwritten letter stimulated excitement because someone took pen and paper and conveyed their thoughts. A handwritten note represented time and effort. My Dad's generation cherished letters and saved them for decades as stored memories. Nothing good ever comes in the mailbox anymore and today was no exception.
By J. S. Wadeabout a year ago in Fiction
Batchelder The Great
Shawn Batchelder, a vocal member, tipped me in support of a poem I wrote. Without any creations of his own, I have no means to thank him beyond deeming him a patron and penning this poem in his honor. Thank you, Shawn, for your kind generosity. I hope you see this.
By J. S. Wadeabout a year ago in Poets
Fare Thee Well
Zeke shuffled down the concrete corridor with Gantry, the head prison guard, on his right and Father Curtis to his left. At thirty-four years old, his life was represented by three granite monuments in the City cemetery. Three bank executives working late, and an explosive intended to blow open a safe, had ended his life of greed built on arrogance. His death penalty conviction had blown apart the myth of banker's hours. The death chamber awaited him at the end of the hall, where he would be put to sleep like a rabid dog.
By J. S. Wadeabout a year ago in Fiction
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