Scott 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. Scott Wade owns all work contained here.
Stories (138/0)
The Big Red's Gang - Part 2
The Big Red's Gang, Part 2 ___________________________ 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 Scott Wadeabout 17 hours ago in Fiction
The Big Red's Gang
Domestic and Graphic The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. I should have never removed the duct tape from the cracked rearview mirror. Piercing black eyes leered at me from a scarred windblown face every bit twenty years my senior. The remnants of a blackened bullet hole oozed congealed blood from his forehead and down his face. In shock, I gasped and swerved onto the shoulder of the desert highway.
By Scott Wade8 days ago in Fiction
A Boy and His Dog
Before my eyes opened, I heard the desperate cry of a human that pierced my heart. I wasn't supposed to care about anything but the sounds and scents of my momma. I competed with the other squeaking whimperers as we jostled for position at feeding time.
By Scott Wade17 days ago in Fiction
