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 (520/0)
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. Ohana3 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. Ohana3 years ago in Poets
I Am Not Amused
By Jove, life can be more unpredictable than death, and death is a sure thing, whereas life can often, especially for a writer, or a poet, a special subspecies of a writer, be bettered by a muse. And I’m not typing about the muse you read about or watched in films. I mean a woman who influences everything you write about, even a freaking haiku, though there, you can evade her a little, especially if you write about AI. I love the idea of AI. Artificial insemination of intelligence into inorganic stuff, with humans, the alpha on Earth, beginning to understand that an alpha always fails and falls to a new stronger life. Life is in competition with itself. Not all life is created equal, especially between species. And even in the midst of an alpha species, the human animal always ranks the individuals within based on their power and means. But that’s not the story here. I’m going to recount a strange tale about once, only once, not being quite amused by my muse.
By Patrick M. Ohana3 years ago in Filthy
Two Plants and a Woman
COVID-19 can even ruin a story. It has to be considered in any tale since it changed everything. Well, fuck it! There’s no COVID-whatever in this one. This story takes place in a parallel universe where there’s no such virus, except that all countries are ruled by Kings and Queens. ’Tis somewhat similar, in some significant estimate, to what we have here on our Earth. Don’t you think, whoever you are out there in your real world and universe? Don’t mind me! I’m a secondary narrator who may pop out, so to write, from time to time, rarely with spite, but it happened a couple of times. Don’t ask! I won’t tell you. It’s an internal struggle between Patrick, M, and all their freaking narrators. It’s like having a permanent Jack-in-the-Box, except that it’s mostly M popping out like Goddess Athena. She’s everywhere now. But who am I to complain about a goddess pretending to be mortal for our sake?
By Patrick M. Ohana3 years ago in Filthy
Woody Allen’s Vision of Death
Because I could not stop for death — He kindly stopped for me — Emily Dickinson There are those who are dead set against death, those who accept it, those who pretend to bear it, and those who perceive it with an ironic inclination, for death is eminently imminent, terribly terrifying, the end of life, and most of all, extremely reliable. Woody Allen seems to adhere to all categories of people and their understandings of death. His vision of it is very often comically ambiguous, which seems to indicate that he is hiding or trying to hide his true feelings towards death. When this unavoidable reality, this final cut, appears as a joke for the sake of a laugh, or in some philosophical observation, one has to wonder about the real meaning of it all. “Death, sweet death! I await you with a smile,” said an anonymous poet. Allen, time and again, seems to say: Death, bitter death! Don’t bother with me! Unfortunately — fortunately for some — death always comes for us. Only, it is deplorable that it befalls us at times when we least expect it to, or when we yet don’t really want it to. What can we do? C’est la vie. The saying “In God we trust” should read: In death we trust. I think it is time to begin probing Allen’s works for death signals.
By Patrick M. Ohana3 years ago in Psyche
I Love Women More
I love women more. No, you don’t! you may think for a little while. Well, you may know some things, but as you’ll read very soon, there’s a lot more to love about women. I wish I could write an encyclopedia dedicated to the sphere of women. I could subtitle it: Two Singular Sexual Tendencies. If Women is the first, what’s the second? you may ask. You may be able to guess this one. I, of course, mean the Pussy. Yes; with a capital P (like the one attached to my first name)! It is, without any doubt whatsoever, just a little important part of a woman. However, given all the realities (facts) and mysticisms (wishes) purveyed to this irresistibility that is the Pussy (any pussy), it has to exist in a realm of its own. Directly linked to the world of Women, of course, but standing on its own against the Prick! It, the Prick, has its own world. Most of you already know about it. But the real world is the Pussy. Where was I?
By Patrick M. Ohana3 years ago in Filthy
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