Patrick M. Ohana
Bio
A medical writer who reads and writes fiction and some nonfiction, although the latter may appear at times like the former. Most of my pieces (over 2,200) are or will be available on Shakespeare's Shoes.
Stories (575)
Filter by community
I Always Disliked the Sound
I think that I became a feminist during my first or second year of university, and in my case, in Montreal, in a French university where I also later received my English degree, a while ago now (I did not complete a final part of the MA), but I would not say that those were the days.
By Patrick M. Ohana4 years ago in Fiction
Hiding from the Moon's Lake
I am only afraid of the dark because of you. You always change your size and the way you look. Even your smile is a sham. The stars are faraway suns. I want the Sun. I do not want you. The Sun is warm and very hot. You are always cold and full of holes. You are like perpetual acne. I refuse to look at you. At least I can easily avoid you when the Sun is shining. But I know that you are still there, waiting like a COVID patient, like death incarnate.
By Patrick M. Ohana4 years ago in Fiction
The Last Macaw
Some think that to be both lively and retired is an oxymoron, yet three ladies in their late sixties, sitting on a bench in Central Park during a pre-COVID-19 afternoon, all three energetic and pensioned, were discussing the nice weather they were having in October, a couple of weeks before Halloween, when usually it rained and the falling leaves snatched the seasonal show. The trees still stole the spectacle with their tears, but only lovers could be suffused in such solicitude, and perhaps those wondering about climate change, which is more like weather shock.
By Patrick M. Ohana4 years ago in Fiction
Tree Salad
You do not have to be vegan or vegetarian to consume this salad since it is universal, actually only for Earthlings, except for trees. I doubt they will like this salad since it would be somewhat cannibalistic on their part if they do. We have known the feel, taste, and fill of human meat throughout our history during lean times and when it was believed to contain one’s essence and strength. These facts always amazed me. How ignorant were we? How keen on bloody flesh and licking bones were our not-so-remote ancestors? There breathed brainless cannibals in the last century, notwithstanding the demented variety who had their freaking minutes of fame. Hannibal Lecter was just the cinematic version. But this recipe is for a tree salad, not a human one. I have no recipe for human flesh, except to kiss, lick, and bite it when in love.
By Patrick M. Ohana4 years ago in Fiction
The Toucher in the Ranunculi
Claspen Nymfield found out one gusty afternoon that he had a gift, namely the aptitude and penchant to make women happy, or at least happier—the gift par excellence. He had finished his lunch in the flowery park, a few minutes’ walking distance from his confined office, when he noticed one of those beautiful women who could take your breath away with a smile let alone a direct glance, walking past him. He looked at her dotingly, trying to visualize some of the splendour beneath her clothes, when all of a sudden, he saw an image of nymphaea flickering in his mind, her labia minora, as he later surmised. He felt the craving to caress them, stroke them ever so lightly with the tips of his fingers and see them open up like a sex book, but he could not imagine that his longing could influence them and affect her directly. She had slowed her pace and then came to a complete stop, feigning forgetfulness of some sort at first, but then revealing some initial surprise followed by more than a trace of satisfaction.
By Patrick M. Ohana4 years ago in Filthy
Grapes & Pomegranates
“Go home!” said the daycare centre’s assistant. “There is war!” she urged without a smile. War? What is war? I must have thought. But the way in which she said it meant that it was not a good thing. Home? Already? At least, that is a good thing. Father, Mother, Sister, Brother, and Cat! As I walked home, I noticed people along the way rushing to and fro. One couple especially caught my attention. They were filling empty bottles with water from a faucet in their garden. It was unusual and therefore strange. When they saw me, they also urged me to get home. I began to run.
By Patrick M. Ohana4 years ago in Fiction
Eléni & M Move to Athens - Part 37
This new series has its history in the form of several short stories, several poems, and a 13-part series that is linked at the bottom via Part 36 of this series. Anthi Psomiadou has agreed wholeheartedly to play the role of a fictional character also called, Anthi, starting in the first series, but with the name, Anthi Kanéna, in this 99-part series (or 100), which she chose herself to add some spirited intrigue. O Anthi! “Yes, M!” How tall are you? “Why do you want to know my height?” I was just wondering if you were taller than Anthi Kanéna. Deep in my subterranean cells, my five senses labor; they weave and unweave space and time, joy and sorrow, matter and spirit. Nikos Kazantzakis
By Patrick M. Ohana4 years ago in Futurism
Eléni & M Move to Athens - Part 36
This new series has its history in the form of several short stories, several poems, and a 13-part series that is linked at the bottom via Part 35 of this series. Anthi Psomiadou has agreed—she did at least twice—to play the role of a fictional character also called, Anthi, starting in the first series, but with the name, Anthi Kanéna, in this 101-part series (or less), which she chose herself to add Homer to the cast at least in spirit. O Anthi! “Yes, M!” How is the weather in Athens? “You can check the Internet, M.” But I want you to tell me, Anthi. I want to have your perspective. My brain blots out, and all, the heavens and the earth, vanish. Nikos Kazantzakis
By Patrick M. Ohana4 years ago in Futurism
Eléni & M Move to Athens - Part 35
This new series has its history in the form of several short stories, several poems, and a 13-part series that is linked at the bottom via Part 34 of this series. Anthi Psomiadou has agreed, I forget when, to play the role of a fictional character also called, Anthi, starting in the first series, but with the name, Anthi Kanéna, in this 100-part series (or more), which she chose herself to convey a more elemental meaning. O Anthi! “Yes, M!” When will it end? “You already know the answer, M.” But I want you to spell it out, Anthi. Is it too much to ask? The stars shine in my brain; ideas, [wo]men, animals, [trees] browse in my temporal head; songs and weeping fill the twisted shells of my ears and storm the air for a moment. Nikos Kazantzakis
By Patrick M. Ohana4 years ago in Futurism
