TANIKA SMITH WHEATLEY
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.....
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…
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…
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.