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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Coach John McKissick: Legacy for All
Dear Coach, The hot and humid August morning found me pulling the black cap over the green football helmet that designated me as a third-string player. You blew the whistle that started the grind of practice to begin my first high school football season.
By J. S. Wade4 years ago in Unbalanced
From Red Dirt to Topgun
Barefoot The sun rose over the farm field and promised another day of scorched earth as little Harold slipped out of bed to not wake his younger sister across the compact farmhouse loft. He pulled on his worn denim overalls and slid down the ladder into the semi-dark kitchen, and viewed the silhouette of his mom's back as she rolled out the biscuits for breakfast. The patched wood framed screened door squealed like a wild bird as he pushed it open, and his mom glanced over her shoulder to him.
By J. S. Wade4 years ago in Serve
Thirty Yards
30 Yards (1965) Selma Ala 1965 The hatred outside my world first touched me at the age of eight on a cold March Sunday afternoon. While playing, a ruckus came from Alabama’s Highway 80, the road from Selma to Montgomery. I crossed the street and trespassed the base commander's yard to the perimeter fence that separated me from the world. At eight years old and the third of four boys, I had free rein within the base neighborhood. My fighter pilot dad, the Chief Test Flight Officer, had brought us to Craig Air Force base in Selma, Alabama. The students and instructors broke the jets, maintenance fixed them, and my dad performed the in-flight tests before returning to flight operations. The din from the highway grew louder.
By J. S. Wade4 years ago in The Swamp
Return of the Lady of the Lake
Faithless - Insomnia *** The cool wind off Lake Michigan blended with the festive fall shoppers' perfumes, colognes, and street foods along the waterfront pier. I stumbled from shop to shop in search of the place written on the slip of paper in my hand, like a drunk trying to find his home. I reread the scrawled name, Potai's, ‘potions’ in Gaelic. Two blocks later, I discovered its weathered sign hung at eye level, descended the steps, and entered the basement shop.
By J. S. Wade4 years ago in Fiction
Homophoniacs
The amber candlelight flickered, and the shadowed daggers nicked their faces as they sipped wine in the Cafe Americana. Amy and Grant viewed themselves as close seconds to Hugh Grant and Renee Zellwinger. Their strong egos, and too much alcohol, enhanced the illusion. Three emptied vino bottles proved the validity of their case most nights.
By J. S. Wade4 years ago in Humans
Gerry and the New York Heiress
She wondered what it was like in his silent world and wished he could tell her; instead, she traced his eyebrows with her fingertips. Streaks from her finger and droplets from her eyes smudged the cold glass and formed prisms on the screen of the IPad. Gerry, with his noble face, strong jaw, high cheekbones, stoic black eyes, and the silken frame of his long ebony hair, stared at her, silent. Janice brought the tablet closer and touched her lips to the image of his full, firm lips.
By J. S. Wade4 years ago in Fiction
