Portland Postcard Stories- Part One


10th September 2014 – Anne Weinhold

“On the corner of 12th and Burnside he found a miniature city, no bigger than a nickel. He picked it up, and holding it close to his face, recognized Portland in the tiny details. The smell of hemp and damp wool was pervasive. He placed the miniature city in his pocket and forgot about it for almost a month. Four weeks of movement had snapped the Burnside Bridge in two, erased the Willamette, ground each individual cyclist down to dust and good intentions. Miniature Portland was indistinguishable from every other miniature American city.”

11th September 2014 – Michael Nolan

“There were no seats left so she stood and in standing found herself angled over a young man’s shoulder, able to read, as he read, the first few pages of Catch 22. She noted the way he’d underlined several sentences in red; a section he wished to understand and, as yet, didn’t. The sense in her, a measured Northern shrug, knew to hold her tongue, understanding that some truths could not be explained, only journeyed on trains and airplanes and, occasionally, downtown buses.”

12th September 2014 – Amberlea Neely

“Jan and Marge have found each other on the Greyhound from Portland to Spokane, Washington. They swap seats to sit next to one another. They are ladies of a certain age. Jan has recently vacationed in Hawaii; Marge, in Monterey, California. Jan has 9 grandchildren; Marge, a mere 7. Both have recently lost their mothers. They knit as they talk and, by the time they reach Hood River, are tangled together, incapable of picking Jan’s sweet threads from Marge’s.”

13th September 2014 – Orla McAdam

“There were four hens in the coop: one white, one brown, and two mottled black and white like zebras blurring behind the fog. The hen with the crazy hair was named Dorothy after her late mother, who, in her final years had struggled to see the point in forcing her fine-toothed comb, reluctant as it was, from forehead to scalp, to the base of her neck, where the hair had grown thin and whispery as cotton candy. The hens rarely laid though she checked for eggs each morning, slipping her indoor shoes on the doorstep to walk barefoot across the sprinklered lawns. Eggs, she reminded herself, were not the only reasons for keeping hens.”


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