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 (248)
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The Appalachian Revival
Emerald hills lay stair-stepped in the shadows of majestic mountains splotched with brownstone outcroppings. Molly stumbled down the two-mile-long rutted road at the center stage of the natural Appalachian amphitheater. Her new twenty-dollar tennis shoes blistered her heels and sweat beaded on the nape of her neck. I hope the woman's deodorant ads were accurate, she thought, or my body odor won't be a secret for long.
By J. S. Wade2 years ago in Fiction
Sleep No More. Content Warning.
Seagulls combated for scraps on the beach in the distance and distracted me from the pounding hammers on the new bleachers below my window. A wave of depression slapped me with the reality that I would never feel the wet sand from the surf squishing between my toes again, moonlit walks, or the soothing crashing of the ocean waves. Memories of a chili-laden Coney Island foot-long made the moldy cheese sandwich on the bunk seem even more revolting. At best, I had three days to live before my final breath on this earth. Seventy-two hours before a lie from a demonic child shot me through the heart in front of a community in want of a target. The two girls who had gone missing in the last month would soon become four, five, six, or more girls after my execution. They had convicted the wrong man. Correction; they were intent on killing the wrong person. Below the jail cell window, a young girl in a faded blue dress, maybe seven or eight years old, held up an emerald necklace and mouthed "Die.. die… die!" With an evil smirk on her lips, her eyes blazed red like the embers of a spent fire. A woman took her hand and led her away as I slammed my fist against the iron bars, and blood spurted from my knuckles as the skin split open.
By J. S. Wade2 years ago in Horror
Quitting. Top Story - February 2024.
Light pierced the cold darkness when the door opened and my husband's face looked down upon me. Unshaven, with haggard eyes, I almost didn't recognize him. I hadn't seen him in this state since he had returned from Iraq. I screamed for attention but I could not utter a sound. His hand passed by me, grabbed a beer, and doomed me to the darkness once again. I remember almost nothing but sudden pain, my daughter's shrill scream, and then blackness.
By J. S. Wade2 years ago in Fiction
Snow Day
Muted street sounds from outside Dr. Ari Stein's brownstone and Eva's long hair tickling his hairless naked body woke him. Leaving the warmth of their bed he pushed the window curtains back. He howled with delight at the dancing snowflakes and the steady accumulation of crystalline art. Two identical flakes stuck to the glass to document his handiwork.
By J. S. Wade2 years ago in Fiction
