It was snowing to the sound of my wife’s voice and a few of her words when I leapt for the first time. I had just turned 44 and my wife was giving me a taste of my birthday gift over the phone as a result of my being away on business in an afflicted place and thus unable to be home to receive it in vivo. To tell you the truth, any other place would have been an afflicted one for my wife and I. Hawai'i had finally become our permanent home. We cherished it like most people adore their god and or love their children having ourselves neither by choice. There were too many gods and enough children in the world for us to opt for a different kind of belongingness. Yet ours was not even a bit nationalistic. We simply fell in love with the Hawaiian Islands and its people. Their hang-loose gesture coupled with their contagious Polynesian hospitality appealed to us when we discovered that it was practiced for real, especially after having been charmed by their music. Mellow, cheerful and rarely melancholic, it soothed us, not that all the rest was not enough to appease us, be it the green-blue ocean, the welcoming sun, the pineapple-sweet wind, the colourful sandy beaches, the caressing foliage, Hawaiian history, snow, and each island in its special and unique way. Honolulu was home and Hawai'i was our homeland—our Mainland—even if we were both born in an afflicted snowy place.
About the Creator
Patrick M. Ohana
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.
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More stories from Patrick M. Ohana and writers in Fiction and other communities.
A Love Misplaced
I feel out of place. Something is missing. Much is missing. The way he looked at me, at her, with love in his eyes. His tender touch of every centimetre of my skin, her skin, including folds and deeper places. He even felt my love for him via my feet, her feet. But there is nothing I can do. I am not in control. She is. Anthi Papageorgis. Yes; she is Greek. I sometimes feel Athena in her veins. I am just her love for him. But I can think for myself. I disagreed when she let him go. But I am only her love for him. She moved me aside. She had better things to do. What is better than love? Anthi did not love him anymore or not as much as at the beginning.
By Patrick M. Ohana4 months ago in Fiction
Perfect Little Pirate
The rough, sodden rope bit into her fingers as she swung over the roiling water far below. Reaching out with the toe of her boot, she managed to catch hold of the rain-soaked railing of the ship- and promptly slipped. Throwing herself forward, she landed hard on the deck, slamming her elbows against the wood planks. The sharp yelp of pain quickly bubbled into a laugh, and she rolled onto her back, laughing up at the gray sky as a torrent of rain washed away the soot covering her skin.
By M. A. Mehan 4 days ago in Fiction
THE VALUABLE LESSON
THE VALUABLE LESSON Once upon a time, there lived a weathered farmer who had aged beyond the ability to toil in his fields. Instead, he whiled away his days upon the porch, a silent observer to his son's continued efforts in the farmstead. The son, engrossed in his labor, would sporadically cast a glance towards his father's seemingly idle form.
By Abdul Qayyum5 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
It was snowing to the sound of my wife's voice. What a wonderful way to start this! I love it!