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 (524/0)
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
Dora Boyd
I never got involved with any of my neighbours or befriended any one of them. A simple salutation seemed more than sufficient, that is until I met Dora Boyd. She was determined to make me speak further to ascertain my full name. I think that I would have told her everything. I found myself talking to her as if I had known her since her Doris days. I even invited her, as soon as our chat was nearing its end, to my apartment for a homemade diner.
By Patrick M. Ohana3 years ago in Filthy
All That String?
Ben befriended everyone and everything, from the beggar on the beach to the brush in his bathroom. His favourite if not beloved other was, however, a string; blue and close to six feet long. He thought about it throughout the day at his desk, analyzing medical data and wondering, for instance, whether the more widespread type II diabetes should have been called type I, and then thinking that he would have liked the string best even if it had been black, the worst colour, or lack of it, he could imagine. By the same token, he also considered white to be quite unattractive, comprising all the colours as if scared of the darkness to come. At home, the string was always beside him when he was not rolling it around his penis or neck to better contemplate death either way.
By Patrick M. Ohana3 years ago in Filthy
Mobile Pussy
I was tired of his musings. Your pussy this and your pussy that. What a prick! I was basically a mobile pussy for him. He wanted to fuck me all the time. What the fuck! What a prick! It was good and hard, and pretty. Nice balls, too. Two. Sorry, astronauts! What? Their balls shrink in space.
By Patrick M. Ohana3 years ago in Filthy
I Took Her Inside
This story is hard to tell. I may need to skip some parts. Don’t worry! It won’t be the sex. It was too good to be left out. But before I start, just to set the mood, I want you to read the following haiku. You don’t have to. I left enough space to allow you to skip it. If I can skip some parts, so can you. Yet it’s only seventeen syllables long. Even a prick may be longer.
By Patrick M. Ohana3 years ago in Filthy
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