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 (574)
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Medium T
Medium T was a happy tree because he happened to look like a male human, with two legs in the ground and thus three trunks, two arms raised towards the sky and thus two branches, several fingers at the end of each arm and thus several twigs, and even a face with a crown on top and thus additional sprigs. His resemblance to a human turned him into a celebrity, providing him with considerably more than the usual fifteen minutes of fame many humans aspired to have sometimes at the expense of everything else. Medium T was neither big or small. Medium T was medium-built but he lacked a prick. Moreover, he was not alone since another tree, somewhat similar to him lived close to him but looked more like a female human.
By Patrick M. Ohana5 years ago in Earth
Experiment in Love
It happened in November, not one of my favourites months. I prefer October because of the falling leaves. I guess that my heart is French, though my mind has been ravaged by the words of the Bard. Shakespeare seems to rule my brain, and I’m afraid, both hemispheres. I may need a third. But my muse is the Queen, and the King if I add everything else that she does. O muse, you doth me the blues. My blue soul is in love with your red heart.
By Patrick M. Ohana5 years ago in Fiction
Cryssarina
Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn’t. Mark Twain Dear Twain knew what he was writing, but I wonder if he knew how much he was right. As some of you know by now, I met my first muse on Medium during the last week of November 2020, less than four months after joining this unusual online writing and reading platform. She fell in love with my words, I fell in love with hers, and from then onwards, I was captivated by her, writing mostly about my love for her, her love for me, and our difficulties getting to be together, which generated the image of my muse living on the Moon. She lived so far from me that it was as if she lived on the Moon. She already had a life and thus imagination took me to her in Prague and elsewhere in space. At one point, I even despised the poor Moon but never the Sun and other stars that seemed to understand my plight with their rays and brightnesses.
By Patrick M. Ohana5 years ago in Fiction
The Position of Thanksgiving 2019
Part 1 (also linked at the bottom) is required before reading this Part 2. The Thanksgiving Show started the midnight celebrations. It was the appetizer, so to speak. It was the olive. That’s why a fifth act would have ruined everything. Four acts. I love the number four. It’s my favourite number. Four seasons. Four wheels. Four breasts in a threesome. Four nucleotides. Four Ninja Turtles. OK! Enough with the fours! I like twos too, but back to the story.
By Patrick M. Ohana5 years ago in Filthy
The Last Pussy
It may read ominous, The Last Pussy, but the subtitle should dispel any apprehension about the title, and I’ll confirm it here from the start that the last pussy could never be the last unless, of course, one is happily matched and in love with his love’s pussy which is always a good disposition to have and to hold, or one has just tasted the last pussy before expiring. I, M, love pussy. In case you haven’t read, Patrick is dead (also linked at the bottom). There’s only myself, M, and my three narrators left, though Jenny is now my main narrator of the three. I don’t even use the other two any longer. M and Jenny are more than enough, especially for this story. I could have titled it, Jenny’s Pussy, but it’s already used for another story (linked at the bottom).
By Patrick M. Ohana5 years ago in Filthy
Athena’s Beauty
Dearest Athena up there in the blue sky, even at night when you become a sparkling star. I feel your breath within my aching heart, and see you walking on air within my lungs. Your father, dear God, has neglected to return my daily prayers and calls to ask you if you have any heart for this mortal, I, a lowly writer, sometimes considered a lost poet.
By Patrick M. Ohana5 years ago in Poets
