Pitt Griffin
Bio
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, it occurred to me I should write things down. It allows you to live wherever you want - at least for awhile.
Stories (47)
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Love in the Jazz Age
Peter Gower stood on the deck of the Freyja and watched Mary Wollstone step out of a bright red, convertible motor car. She was even more beautiful than the day she rejected his last marriage proposal. He was no expert on the affairs of the heart. But after six failed attempts to win Mary’s hand, it dawned on this slow thinker that his future may not include a union with his heart’s desire.
By Pitt Griffinabout a year ago in Fiction
Conversion. Top Story - June 2024.
It does not rain much in the Arizona desert. But when it does, the waters come hard and fast. Ancestral dry river beds scoured by flash floods bear witness to their force. A man caught between steep, rocky banks can drown on a cloudless sunny day, swept away by water racing across the desert, shed by thunderstorms rumbling beyond the horizon.
By Pitt Griffin2 years ago in Fiction
The Brownstone Murder
She had been beautiful in life, and Detective Sergeant Roy Yadav thought she made a fine-looking corpse. The small, precise bullet wound made a red bindi on her forehead. The dark blood pooling around her pale blond hair, lustrous in the harsh crime scene lights, gave the body an angelic aura.
By Pitt Griffin2 years ago in Criminal
A boy who wanted to be judged for who he was
I was born lucky by conventional standards. And by almost all other standards, for all I know. My gender (male) matched my physical sex. My sexuality (straight) met social approval. My skin color (white) matched everyone else who lived on my street and went to my schools. In England, it gave me membership in the privileged race.
By Pitt Griffin2 years ago in Humans
The Obstultancy of Unearned Wealth. Runner-Up in the Neolomicro Challenge.
Standing porcine at the Soho gallery’s opening night, Burton was free with his opinions. Although he knew little about art. And had never heard of this season’s fresh, must-see talent. He was a heavy man, marked with a drunk’s rosacea. When he talked, which was most of the time, he droned with monotonic, unintelligent certainty - sucking the light out of the r00m like a mindless black hole.
By Pitt Griffin2 years ago in Fiction
The imposition
Dear reader, as what follows is a chapter from the middle of my memoir, permit me to offer some needed detail. Otherwise, you may find yourself wondering what the hell is going on. First, an introduction. I was born a New Yorker who, owing to circumstances beyond my control, was raised from before memory by loving but occasionally error-prone American parents in London.
By Pitt Griffin2 years ago in Chapters
Breaking the ice
I was a contrarian as a schoolboy. I hated to do what I was told. And in school, I was often told to write. So, I hated writing. After I left school, I took a gap year before I went to university. That winter, I lived in a vacation town on the Jersey Shore. Back then, people observed the seasonal landmarks. After Labor Day, the town was almost deserted.
By Pitt Griffin2 years ago in Writers
Growing up
Bear with me, please. I will tell you about the book that started it all. But if I merely ripped the wrapping off my story and laid it on the table, it would be incomplete. I would have shown you my after picture, with no image of how I was before. So permit me to start a while back with the author - and work my way forward.
By Pitt Griffin2 years ago in BookClub
