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 Midnight Rendezvous
Contentment became me as I awaited my secret lover. Brethren whimpered in the darkness nearby. “Will he come?” Quiet befell the monumental garden as twelve bells pealed the half-moonlit sky. Weeping willows whispered, Sssss...am. Dressed in my finest. I waited. Alone.
By J. S. Wadeabout a year ago in Fiction
Potholders For Sale. Top Story - April 2023.
"General Manager, needed in the showroom," blared over the intercom. Expecting a customer service complaint, I folded the financial spreadsheets to brace myself mentally to be blindsided by a dissatisfied customer or a roving peddler selling their wares. Rare was the occasion in business that brought a positive moment. Such was the life of managing an automotive dealership.
By J. S. Wadeabout a year ago in Humans
Cloud Nine, One, One
Turbines roared as Flight 1107 for Boston nosed into the clear sky and pressed my body into the passenger seat. The rattle of the Boeing 757's retracting gears vibrated beneath my loafers. I cut my eyes to the port window as the elevators rumbled, retracting and reshaping the wing. My ears popped, and I closed my eyes as we jetted toward thirty-five thousand feet.
By J. S. Wadeabout a year ago in Fiction
The Flight of the Gnome
Amelia unzipped the canvas bag, and a sliver of light caused me to squint. Three pairs of legs came into my purview, one sporting denim, another yoga pants, and the last were bare. I knew the smallest of legs were hers from the freckles on her shin. Whining machinery pierced my Gnome ears, and I covered them with my hands. The piercing sound would require adjustment as high frequencies hurt our kind. The stench of sweaty human feet curled into the bag, and I wrinkled my nose. Such is the curse of standing ten inches tall. Amelia had promised she would take me on the family vacation to Florida but should have mentioned we'd be flying in this human-made machine.
By J. S. Wadeabout a year ago in Fiction
The Guardian
As I lifted into the gentle air, golden rays burned through the early morning skies. Its glow shimmered off my pearl-white feathers like the colors of the rainbow. Cotton clouds like down pillows awoke and parted as I climbed towards the indigo heavens. Fading stars winked one last time before they slipped off to their slumber for the day. The earth below diminished as I worked the air flows and rose ever higher. The terraformed artwork appeared as patchworks of ochre fields, green grasses, and shrinking emerald forests below.
By J. S. Wadeabout a year ago in Fiction
The Big Red's Gang - Part 2
The Big Red's Gang, Part 2 Graphic violence ___________________________ The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. Who was this in the bathroom mirror? Howard, the wimp, would have stared back at me twenty-four hours earlier. As Poppy had said, "a pimply-faced bum." Now, the pimples remained, but Duck's eyes blazed with hope. The muscles in my arms seemed to have grown overnight, and my hair was darker, like Poppy's. The Big Red bandanna, tied around my head, was a banner under which to charge into the future. Yet, there was something missing. The ingrained hope of acceptance was new. But what was missing? Then it dawned on me. My lifelong fears had been driven out by the gang of ghosts in a red 1967 Dodge Challenger that had stood up for me, defended me, and fought for me. Prior to meeting Poppy in the broken rear-view mirror, fear had debilitated my ability to exist beyond running away. He had changed my name from Howard to Duck, and I'm a full member of The Big Red's Gang. We don't do drugs but fight to get them off of our streets. Without fear, I run to any noble fight because I found others to care about.
By J. S. Wadeabout a year ago in Fiction
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