M.W. Whitaker
Bio
I'm from Mesa, AZ. I have been writing stories since I was a child. Tips and subscriptions are always welcome, both on here and at my Kofi Page:
https://ko-fi.com/mwwhitaker
Stories (15/0)
Seeing Red
Alex O’Reilly heard the buzzing sound of a drone outside his Dublin flat, and a gentle thud as something landed on his doorstep. He was in the middle of an email, a steaming cup of black coffee by him. He grumbled and got to his feet. With the rash of robberies in the neighborhood, he knew he should get the package in. He cursed silently. It was a good size package and a bit heavy. He looked it over, looking for shipping information. He cursed softly. Idiots! The package wasn’t even addressed to him. It was for a house a block away. He put the box on the kitchen counter, and slowly finished his coffee and his email. As he finished his last sip, Alex heard something.
By M.W. Whitakerabout a year ago in Fiction
Sounds and Silence
Drumbeats at sunrise Reverant silence as well Serene fastness there Background: This poem is written about Piestewa Peak, which is a very surreal environment. It is in North Central Phoenix, with suburbs and city all around it. It is often a reflection of life itself, with some people climbing up the steep trail at a virtual sprint, while others climbing slowly and steadily up. Every morning at sunrise, Taiko drummer Ken Koshio plays at the top of the mountain. If you are able to reach the very peak, it is reverent and silent. There could be two dozen hikers up there, but it is quiet. It's far enough up that you get the best of both worlds: a great view of the city, but without the noise.
By M.W. Whitakerabout a year ago in Poets
Superstition Mountain
Magenta palace Mysteries and legends too Treasured gold hidden This poem is about the Superstition Mountains that are only a small distance from my home. They have captured the imagination of many writers, and there are legends aplenty including the legend of the Lost Dutchman gold mine. Part of the mountains includes a rock chimney called Weaver's Needle that supposedly points the way to the mine. One cool fact about the Superstition Mountains is that twice a year, in March and September there is a shadow that appears that looks like a cougar chasing its prey.
By M.W. Whitakerabout a year ago in Poets
The Pearl
You would never believe how lonely it can be. To begin, I am different than you think. While there are so many legends about creatures like me, they have been embellished and twisted beyond all recognition. The truth is, shall we say complex. We are known by many names throughout many cultures: taniyn, lóng, dragão…dragon. Cultures in the East view us as enigmatic, powerful, and generally wise. Cultures in the West view us as agents of chaos, evil, and destruction. Both descriptions could be considered true. As for my name, it's unpronounceable by humans and don't ask me what my name is in dolphin, in wolf, or in raven. Just call me Dragon or Red if you wish. I am very old by human standards, and often very alone.
By M.W. Whitaker2 years ago in Fiction
Foundlings and Fire
Kusog the dragon was hunting above the Forest of Maaya, part of which was on fire. He sighed heavily as he flapped his enormous wings in the moonlight. There would be more accusations or even reprisals from humans accusing him and him fellow dragons of attacking them. In all but one case, it had been human raiding parties who had torched a house or a village and let the fire spread. He saw a couple of sheep wandering round in a field surrounded by a rock wall. They’d do for dinner tonight. He approached silently from behind, gliding, getting ever lower, but suddenly he swerved. There was a human child standing in the field looking right at him solemnly. He crashed into the stone wall, taking out about eighty feet of it. The sheep bleated in terror and took off running to the other end of the field. He got to his feet, and shook the dust off. He went back to the child, looking around angrily for the spawn’s parents. They were nowhere to be seen. There was no frantic mother, a lantern aloft, or a father peering around calling his son’s name.
By M.W. Whitaker2 years ago in Fiction
Only Dogs Are Allowed To Have Tails
There I am. I have to say, I'm quite the handsome fella. I mean, look at me. I have a great smile, obviously. But all the friends of my pet humans say that sometimes when I sit, I look majestic, like I should be on a throne or something. I must agree and don't you forget it! Ah, my pet humans. Their antics are funny. However, as they are a bit slower than we dogs, sometimes, though, I must establish boundaries and discipline them appropriately, particularly when they cross a line defying the natural order. It happened a few times in my life. There was that time that the human Mick brought me a New Year's Eve hat. Dogs don't wear hats. To be fair, I was a good sport, and smiled.
By M.W. Whitaker2 years ago in Petlife
The Keening
I should have felt afraid, but I didn't. It was big. It reminded me of one of those larger whales from Earth, like a right whale or a humpback though it only vaguely resembled one. It was roughly thirty meters long. It had long wing like flippers on each side, but they were diaphanous, and unlike a whale, it was vibrantly colored, with electric blue bio-luminescence on its face. It's tail wasn't flukes, but long elegant fins that seemed almost metallic but in hues of blue and teal. Two violet blue eyes regarded me from the outsides of its face. It was only about twenty meters from the window. My training kicked in, and I tapped a button on the console.
By M.W. Whitaker2 years ago in Fiction
Vexing Cordelia
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. Then again, it’s not that hard to do. After all, I made Cordelia Mathers scream so loud that people swore they could hear it as far as Rigel, three times no less and that’s over eight hundred light years from home. It was the first time that I remember the most though. Follow. Cordelia, or more accurately Cordelia Marie Eugenie Gabriella Imelda Eva de Leonis Mathers and I were never close. How could anyone get close to someone with that many names in the way? I just had four. I am Alicia Margaret Catherine Taylor, but my friends all call me Ally. First off, some background.
By M.W. Whitaker2 years ago in Fiction
The Keening
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. I paused, looking at the screen. What they? I’m the only one left. All that’s left of the human race. The Fasioti Tagata had seen to that. Unlike other alien species we had encountered, the Fasioti Tagata were different. They wanted to destroy any sentient species that wasn’t their own. Their attack on one of our allies was what started it all. The war had been won decisively when their ships had obliterated Fleet Headquarters. Our government had tried to surrender, but the Fasioti Tagata didn’t want quarter, they wanted us dead. And they got what they wanted. Even Earth wasn’t spared. For weeks after our worlds fell, there were constant communications. Frantic calls for help from human and allied species forces begging for reinforcements. Images of bombed out cities on now dead worlds, destroyed ships and stations, and billions of bodies, all dead. I walked through the station, and made my way to the Command Center. It was still eerie. Type seven stations like this one could comfortably house tens of thousands of troops. But the last troops left more than a year ago, leaving only ninety of us to run the place until the relief ships arrived. But we had losses. Too many.
By M.W. Whitaker2 years ago in Fiction
