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 (516/0)
A Soul's Strings
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. To be more precise, it only appeared to be burning. It was a reflection of a burning candle, although the real candle was nowhere to be found. This is actually the middle of the story, since I always prefer to start midway between the Right and the Left; I mean the beginning and the end. Every nation should aspire to have a centrist government. Did I digress already? I tend to do that, so please, bare with me some of your patience. It tends to offer a dividend, usually at the end. "Come on, M!" I am sorry for the author's intrusion, but I am the narrator, and I can tell you from the get-go that I digress a lot. It may break the rhythm, but I think that a good beat has to be severed to add more tension. This is a song, after all, with several strings as far as I can see.
By Patrick M. Ohana2 years ago in Criminal
My Father's Fingernails
I believed that I had to die in order to stop suffering from the death of my father. I remember telling my future wife sometime after we had met that I wanted to die before my parents, refusing to suffer their loss. I probably only meant that for my father: the man who held my hand at less than three years of age when we disembarked from the boat that brought us to our new home, the man who always tasted the melon first before sharing it with his three remaining children and his wife, the man who let me enjoy the touch of his calloused hands and yellowing fingernails, the man who secretly ate the tasty homemade pastries and fresh seasonal fruits and blamed it on me when reproached by his domineering wife, the man who worked for the army and returned home early to take care of me, the man who knew how to cook a mean spaghetti, the man who taught me by example to seek peace and quiet, the man I painfully loved even when he became difficult to deal with following his drawn-out struggle with Alzheimer’s disease, the man whose smile could light up any room including his private one in the nursing home, the man I lost at the tender age of 89. Is this all I could remember of the forty years of having a father? No! It is only a simple synopsis of all those years, a broad overview of four decades, a would-be writer’s whimper.
By Patrick M. Ohana2 years ago in Families
Dog Day Morning
It was a very cold January morning; one of those arctic daybreaks that one often encounters in wintry Montreal. Deciding to remain in bed at least until eight, I almost imperceptibly heard the sound of a scratch on the door. When I opened it, I found a cute cocker spaniel about to freeze to death. I let it in and thought that I heard it thank me. I brought it some warm milk and could have sworn that I heard it thank me again. I was getting ready to leave for work when I heard it wishing me a good day. I looked at the dog, it looked at me, opened its mouth and said: “Yes, you heard me! I spoke to you!” I was stunned. “I hope that you feel fine. You look quite pale. Although I am a dog, I do speak, English and French.” I regained my speech, and with extreme disbelief told it — there was no one else to speak to — that I knew that it was a prank. “My names are Honesty, Good Dog, Bad Dog, Sit, Roll Over, Jump, Fetch, Come Here, and Get Out,” it replied. Still doubtful, I mumbled my name. “I like your name,” uttered the dog and wiggled its tail. “Thanks!” I muttered. “What name do you prefer?” I added. “Yes,” said the dog. “Yes?” I asked. “Yes,” Yes replied. I smiled and was going to feed Yes, but she asked for a rain check. I sat beside her with a large coffee, feeling silly for a short while.
By Patrick M. Ohana2 years ago in Petlife
Greece My Love
How can one relax and even sleep during a raging pandemic? To be extra careful in order to stay very safe depends on many factors, some of which are difficult if not impossible to execute and ultimately control. To be or not to be adopts a different disposition that may feel or at least seem new in a world still keen on living as if the all clear had sounded on Mount Olympus and on every other peak.
By Patrick M. Ohana2 years ago in Humans
Once Upon an Owl
Once upon a time I knew a woman who showed me her pussy but would not tell me her name. I thus called her Pussy. It is her name to this day. I think that she still lives in El Paso, or is it Chicago. I do not remember Pussy so much any more. It has been a long while. More than a couple of years. I would say five but M would disagree. He always disliked the number five. He even wished we had six fingers on each hand. The feet, he did not care, as long as the toes were nice. A dozen fingers actually sound nice too. With the extra two we could finger some things more. You know. New gloves. More nail clippings. Faster typing, I suppose. More itching coverage. Another finger couple. More status quo.
By Patrick M. Ohana2 years ago in Fiction