-
⚽ Twelve 8-year-olds + 200mg of caffeine + one mortified coach = the best bar story you’ll hear today. Trust us, you want to hear how this ends.
-
A late-night traffic stop becomes a reminder: storytelling connects us, grounds us, and makes us known. In a world of strangers, our stories are how we find our way home.
-
Grant’s thoughts about purchasing the Toyota snapped away when the officer softly tapped the driver’s side window. “Hello? Can you roll down the window for me, sir?” Grant didn’t realize the young officer was standing next to his door. The lights were blinding and hypnotizing all at the same time. “Yes, sir. Absolutely.” He quickly
-
Before I was old enough to read, I told stories. Imagination incubated, spit out into the world through my limited toddler vocabulary. After being taught how to read and write, the magic turned from oral stories to written stories. Now I was writing my own material, reading everything I could to get ideas, even the
-
Staring right at me, I thought she would start screaming, yelling at the top of her lungs. Before you start in on me, I just want to set the record straight – I didn’t start this argument. No. Really. I didn’t. It wasn’t my fault. But then again, the guilty always have a way of
-
Nolan came into McMinimin’s, looking for his favorite bartender, Caitlin, a good old-fashioned Irish girl with ginger hair, a pale complexion accented with freckles, and a few piercings in her left ear. A stranger stood behind the bar, a big man, balding, with a slight hint of a mustache that looked like he’d be attempting
-
Walking through the door of McMinimin’s, Nolan scanned the pub’s interior, looking for a familiar face. It was a bar known by most Portland locals for its locally brewed beers. Even some unfamiliar with the other southwest watering holes knew of McMinimin’s. Nolan came to the bar after work, knowing the next 78 Tri-Met bus
-
A thick layer of dust coated a covered loveseat. It wasn’t the only piece of furniture in the room. There was a stack of uncovered chairs, a massive table covered in a canvass-like material, and three candle operas atop the covered table, the candles themselves melted down to the base of each holder. It didn’t
-
Tattered and faded, it was a wonder that Matt could read it, much less make out the small, subtle details. It was a touch warm down in the small, cramped basement room. But not enough for sweating. Matt’s heart was racing, excitedly recognizing each symbol belonging to an ancient race of people, which he studied
-
I met Geoff through a mutual friend and coworker, John Kirby. Kirby and Geoff were friends back in the day went they both lived in the Mission District of San Francisco. Both men had good jobs, John well on his way to being a professional rock musician, and Geoff working as a manager at Zim’s,
-
Living in southeast Portland gives you unique experiences, particularly when you are thrust into environments with people you don’t know. In these environments, you discover who you can trust, whom you can’t, and pitfalls to avoid, namely living in large apartment complexes or rundown four-plex homes, like the one, my girlfriend, and our three kids,
-
Glen’s tongue, thick and heavy from the excessive amounts of Hamm’s he consumed, made it hard to understand any word he spoke with an ‘s’ in it. The foreman of a hot asphalt roofing crew for Loren Smallen, Glen was happiest off the roof, smoke burning between the fingers of his right hand and a
-
Taking my eyes off him? That wasn’t an option. Staring. It was all I could do. Was it the fresh tattoo, tiny droplets of blood running down over the other tats on his arms? Or maybe the fuzzy felt black top hat on his head reminded me of the Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland?
-
“Homework, Wes. I hate homework. Especially when I’m trying to figure out if a company as large as yours is listening to and acting on the truth of their culture.” “Well, our culture is excellent. Our performance reviews say it all. Great place to work. Wonderful staff. Management stops and listens to grievances. The vision
-
“Wait for me!” James screamed, almost out of breath. I think it was a warm June day, somewhere around the second week. School let out a week earlier, and it couldn’t happen fast enough. I dreaded going to school. My teachers weren’t all that nice to me, and, before you ask, no. That’s not an
Stories. Enjoy!
5 Minute Observations 