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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Two roads converge
A boy is not born with a map. His life's destination is not fixed. In the early years, a growing youth has little say in their own navigation. But as life unfolds, his journey takes a path. A course that can diverge from the roads others take. And with each step, the map becomes solid. It isn't a tool to guide your future path; it is a chart of your past course.
By Pitt Griffin2 months ago in Humans
Uncle Asomatous
In 1954, when I was nine, Henrik told Frank that I smelled like turned milk. It hurt me so hard. For the rest of the school day, I sat behind my heavy wooden desk, sniffing the sleeve of my dress and the skin of my arm, alert for any sourness. But I could smell nothing bad. We weren't rich. But we had a washing machine in the basement. My mother carried baskets of clothes up and down the wooden steps on wash day. I would help her fold, and my clothes always smelled nice to me.
By Pitt Griffin6 months ago in Fiction
No Witnesses. Runner-Up in 500 Word Shockwave Challenge.
No witnesses. That was the key. It’s tough enough to get away with murdering someone you know. But killing someone you’re married to is guaranteed to put you in the frame - especially if an unaccounted-for witness sees the killing.
By Pitt Griffin9 months ago in Fiction
A Divinely Impossible Love
It was a long-ago Friday evening in May. La Negrita was packed. Young professionals drank with plumbers and file clerks. Men and women mixed and separated in eddying pools along the bar spanning the length of a long wall in the cantina’s courtyard. On the other side of the courtyard, a Cuban band played loud and sinuous salsa music. The place was a cacophony of laughter, clinking, innuendo, and romance.
By Pitt Griffin11 months ago in Fiction
The Ghosts of Christmas Past. Runner-Up in Tales of Hearth Challenge.
We used our fireplace once a year. It was a rare treat in a city where acrid killer smogs had led to bans on open fires in private homes. The fireplace was in our drawing room, a well-appointed salon, off limits to children most of the time. It was there my parents received their guests. The place where my mother would usher my sister and me to look people directly in the eye. Give them a firm handshake. And ask, “How do you do?”
By Pitt Griffinabout a year ago in Families
A teaspoon of sand. Runner-up in Small Kindness Challenge.
I was seventeen - on the cusp of eighteen. In a novelist’s imagination, a young lady on the verge of what comes next. Not that I thought of myself in literary terms. My life was not a bildungsroman. I wasn’t in transition from one thing to another. I was, as an American TV psychologist might say, living in the moment. An outwardly confident girl whose sang-froid masked the existential insecurities of youth.
By Pitt Griffinabout a year ago in Psyche
