TANIKA SMITH WHEATLEY
Bio
When I was a child, I would wake up in the night because of nightmares. As time went on, I realized that I was looking forward to my dreams. Now, I write them, among other stories as well.....
Stories (38)
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On the Wings of Birds
The escape Hinewai was sitting on a rocky plateau watching the wondrous geyser activity that seemed to spread out in all directions as far as the eyes could see, surrounding her with hissing mist, at her new home. How she’d wished that she had thought to bring one of the many bird totems with her – it would have looked like a shining Manaian symbol among the Te Arawa ethereal misty lands. She hadn’t realized how much time she’d spent praying to those totems, back home. She hadn’t realized how little she had bought with her – travel light, she’d instructed everyone, we will get new things at Te Arawa – too late, she realized just how precious some things were, like the totems that she had taken for granted, at Manaia. She supposed she couldn’t ask for any to be made, especially now, when these people were changing, becoming like the Pakeha, and worshipping their Gods – or God – apparently, they only had one, although they also prayed to his son’s mother, Mary…
By TANIKA SMITH WHEATLEY3 years ago in Fiction
On the Wings of Birds
BEFORE I believe it is all her fault, my ambitious, grandmother’s fault. With some regret, I blame her. I remember the first time I saw her. Still youthful; and still beautiful. And frivolous, flippant, and flirtatious. Even as a small child I thought so; yet I wanted her to be proud of me none-the-less – and although the life she had planned for me was extremely different to what I had dreamed of at the time, she made me believe I was just like her, courageous and confident, rather than the quiet, shy girl I really was. She made the quiet, gentle ways of my sweet mother seem somehow weak and feeble. She had an infectious laugh and exciting way about her that contagiously swept everyone away with her enthusiasm until too late, we’re all doing what she wants, living the life she has in mind for us – even my conquering father, my sweet mother, and my lovely sisters – such power, such control – even with the great sea between us - yet – if we all had a second chance at it, we’d all do it exactly the same, all over again – simply because – she was right…………..(mused Whiu Hinehoe A’Tane - called Hinewai)
By TANIKA SMITH WHEATLEY3 years ago in Fiction
The Man Who Made Me
The Man Who Made Me… I keep my paintings in the spare room and while cataloguing some for my website lately, I came across my old horse racing ribbons and martial arts belts – I had to stop what I was doing for a moment, while remembering the person, the reason, I had such things, stored away with my paintings, and memories…
By TANIKA SMITH WHEATLEY4 years ago in Humans
The Dark Place
The Dark Place By Tanika Smith Wheatley Prologue Donna and The Dark Forest I have always loved horse riding, usually galloping through the woods, across meadows or along the beach; but today, I found myself pleasantly and slowly riding a horse down a narrow country lane lined with fragrant Camellia which had been one of my grandmother’s favourite plants; she had had several Camellia in her garden, when alive. The sun shone warmly on my face and I turned my face upwards, to enjoy its warmth - I breathed in the flower’s enchanted fragrance deeply - I was so captivated with the pleasant ride that I almost fell from the horse when my grandmother suddenly ran out from between the Camellia plants and grabbing the bridle, abruptly stopped my horse – naturally I was pleased to see her; but I was also perplexed and wanted to say, ‘but…you’re supposed to be dead…’ but I felt afraid that my words might break the spell of her ethereal presence s0 I silently let her lead us down a tiny (and narrowing) path through a darkening forest – no more pretty Camelia plants - until we reached a clearing and I had to blink from the sudden brightness after being in the dark woods before I realized - we were in the middle of a cemetery – still; we continued in silence, until she stopped - and pointed - and I gasped – I had to climb down from my horse to take a closer look to be sure I was seeing correctly – two identical simple white tombstones standing side by side - one with my name on it, and the other blank – but when I turned to question her about this strange phenomenon, she’d vanished…
By TANIKA SMITH WHEATLEY4 years ago in Fiction
STRIKE
STRIKE By Tanika Smith Wheatley Ironically, it was one of those brilliant sunsets, with pink and orange clouds smeared across a crimson canvass sky. Hardly a breeze stirred, hardly a sound could be heard. Cool and silent, like the calm before the storm. I was hardly aware of anything around me, including my own existence – so still the atmosphere - so hypnotic the scene. This is probably the last beautiful view I will ever witness.
By TANIKA SMITH WHEATLEY4 years ago in Fiction
