Throwing Coins by Shanna Seesz

He tries to explain why Luise, the nurse, puts sticky labels on every object in the house. Her name is not Luise. Rather, Luise is the name of the cat that died when I was seven. Dad and I buried her in…

Damien by Geneva Chao

I always wanted to see the greatness of America. Fruited plains, purple mountain’s majesty, amber waves. We didn’t travel much, but when I got old enough, I took off. Caught a bus to California, hopped a freight train to Santa Fe. Hitchhiked north, looking…

Food Review: Wintery Springs Still Brings Seasonal Delight. by Scott Warfe

Spring in Portland is something of a misnomer. The weather is cold and dour, leaving resident’s longing for a balmier climate. As with winter, the sun remains hidden behind the clouds that sag just above the cityscape like the faux-velvet roof-liner of a 1984…

Birds of the Air by Joe Pitkin

Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests,

but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.

Matthew 8:20

Holding Stems by Shanna Seesz

So this is love: locked in bathrooms, staring at bare floors. There was a time when I took comfort in them, their frigidness, in college, when we first met and we were fumbling drunk and urgent hands and boozing our way through silence.…

All future rights to material published on The Portland Fiction Project are retained by the individual authors. Content found on the Portland Fiction Project is protected by copyright you may not reproduce, publicly display, perform, or distribute any of the materials (in whole or in part) on this Website without the express written consent of the individual author or artist.