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)
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Symbiosis
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. However the sound registered, however, a lot of people heard it on multiple worlds. The monks on Teoa could hear it perfectly though only while they were in their meditative state. It seemed to register with different races across the galaxy in different ways as well. Empathic species like the Hassos couldn’t just hear it, they could feel it and millions of them joined in the Scream, their fur standing on end. Later on, they described it as one part terror and one part anguish. The warrior races like the Nidoi-Cang and the Oorlogskreet, declared the Scream a battle cry, and they armed themselves for war. The governments on human-controlled worlds didn’t acknowledge the Scream at first, in fact many of their so-called experts and pundits scoffed at the notion of someone or something making a sound that could carry across more than a third of the galaxy.
By M.W. Whitaker3 years ago in Fiction
Banshee
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. But whoever 'they' are, they lied. For a scream was how the nightmare started for us all. Our listening posts heard it first. It only lasted for forty-six seconds, but it was heard everywhere in the Terran sphere of influence. The broadcast stations on our colonies orbiting Antares and Alcor shorted out, knocking out both power and communications to over a dozen colonies. The E.S.S. Pasternak, a 50,000-passenger carrier enroute to the Canopus system had its navigational array fail. It was only by a miracle that the crew avoided a collision with one of the many space stations on the Canopus run. Even in the highest levels of the Terran government, the Scream could not be silenced or clamped down.
By M.W. Whitaker3 years ago in Fiction
Home
Lucy took a shower. Her mind was seething. As she dried her long dark hair, she wiped the steam off the bathroom mirror. She stared at her reflection. Her brown eyes looked back at her. She could see only vestiges of who she once was. She turned away from the mirror. That nutjob therapist asked her a question that seemed simple, but she didn’t know the answer. The therapist had asked who she was.
By M.W. Whitaker4 years ago in Fiction
