Portland Fiction Project

Established in 2006, the Portland Fiction Project is Portland, Oregon's premiere short fiction writing group.

Everyday they provide readers with free, original fiction at www.portlandfiction.net. [http://www.portlandfiction.net]

The group experiments with the idea of writing as both a collaborative and individual effort. They do this by employing methods of improvisation as well as a strong group structure.

Each week, writers from The Portland Fiction Project are given a single suggestion. Over the course of a week, the individual writers then create single short stories. The group meets and workshops the stories which almost always contain thematic, sensory and circumstantial commonalities. The origin of these commonalities is unknown. Sometimes they come in the shape of strange coincidences. For example if the suggestion was "apple", two writers may both unwittingly write stories with a main character who is a priest. This could be said to be rooted in coincidence - if not for the constant, various and unlikely shapes these recurring commonalities take.

Each piece has a distinct beginning and an end. Each has a single author solely responsible for the content. However, each is also a branch of the bigger project. Each story is part of the group's dealing with a particular concept.

From "Last Day" by Tim Josephs:

The second item on the list was much more interesting and I grinned when I read it: have sex on the table in the conference room. I currently wasn’t dating anyone so I wasn’t sure this one was doable (pun intended) either. As I stepped into the shower, I wondered who I could call. Unfortunately the best candidate, Clarissa, was on vacation in Thailand. If ever there was someone I could call for kinky, spiteful sex, it was her.

As I got dressed, I finally decided to just do it myself. It was sex, pretty much; sex with someone I loved, to paraphrase Woody Allen. I arrived at the office early, hoping not too many people would be there yet. After stopping at my desk for a moment, I walked upstairs and crept into the conference room. I closed the door and tried to lock it. The only problem was there wasn’t a lock. For a second I thought about skipping this one but Steve’s words echoed through my head: “What are they gonna do, fire you?”

I quickly dropped trough and hopped up onto the shiny, surprisingly cold table, right in front of where Mr. Crawford had given me the great news the day before. I was a little paranoid that someone would walk in at any moment so I wasn’t sure it was going to happen. But after a few minutes and more than a few thoughts about Salma Hayek, I was able to complete the job.

I hurriedly cleaned up and just as I was buttoning my pants, I heard the door open. I turned around to see an older woman I didn’t know. I panicked for a second and then noticed a pen on the table.

“Found it,” I said loudly, grabbing the pen. Trying to restrain my laughter, I walked past her and back up to my cubicle.

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