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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Achilles Beach. Runner-Up in Pitch Your Pilot Challenge.
Mise-en-scène The series opens at the Achilles Beach Resort. A grand old pink stucco Mediterranean-style hotel replete with classic coastal decor and elements - barley twist columns, rattan furniture, Moroccan tile, pecky cypress ceilings.
By Pitt Griffin3 years ago in Humor
The Stuff that Dreams Are Made of
There are two ways to profit from a gold rush. The suckers will head for the hills with their gold pans dreaming of wealth in the silt, grit, and muck of frigid streams. The thinking man will set up shop in the inevitable mining town. And sell supplies to the optimists full of piss and vinegar, too ignorant to know they are drawing to an inside straight. And thus it was when I opened for business as the sun rose on the line waiting at my store's door.
By Pitt Griffin3 years ago in History
The Perfectest Herald of Joy
“Silence is the perfectest herald of joy" - Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing When you are fourteen and sitting at a table in a ski lodge lounge with your best friend and two girls, you feel grown up and at sea. You have taken a bold step into adulthood, and it is an unfamiliar place.
By Pitt Griffin3 years ago in Humans
The Glass Lies. Runner-Up in Broken Mirror Challenge.
I. The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. I looked at it, as I had every morning for 37 years. It was the image of a kind man - the sort who gave five dollars to panhandlers and smiled at baristas. The face was unlined and ageless. It was an arresting face. Not pretty-boy handsome, but well-chiseled and distinguished. Trustworthy, my customers called it.
By Pitt Griffin3 years ago in Horror
Opening doors
November 2022, Brooklyn, NY. Azra was doing her homework in the bay window niche of the Cobble Hill brownstone when the box arrived. A buzzing made her look up. Outside, a drone deposited its load on the stoop. She swiveled in her chair and announced into the room.
By Pitt Griffin3 years ago in Fiction
Sam plays football
I cannot remember the day we brought Sam home from Harrods. I was very young. And he was younger than me - even in dog years. He was a pitch-black toy poodle. And home was a brick house that backed onto London's Holland Park in what was then the Royal Borough of Kensington.
By Pitt Griffin3 years ago in Families
The Father I Didn't Know
My father was distant when I was young. Not just emotionally but often physically. He was a quiet man. He spoke little and faced the world with an expressionless calmness. He also had a job that required him to travel extensively from our house in London. He would be gone for days in Europe and sometimes as far away as Australia. And to my way of thinking, that was how fathers were.
By Pitt Griffin4 years ago in Families
A Journey’s End
I am old now. The end is near, but I have no fear. My life has been long and complete. I have fond memories and a family to carry on my name. Which, just in case it’s important to you, is Michael Alba. And now that I have your attention, and with your permission, I wish to tell you my story. It is an ordinary tale. Important only to me and my family. But maybe you have some time to kill and have nothing better to do.
By Pitt Griffin4 years ago in Fiction
Vita’s Arc
The Cross Vita Cayetano lived with her husband in Jackson Cross, a town in the Arizona desert, just north of Winslow and just south of the Navajo Nation. And miles from England, her native country. Who Jackson was is now lost to time. And whether the Cross was a religious reference, no one could say, there was no church in town. On Sundays, Christians would go to services in Winslow. And after church, they would troop to Marlene’s diner, which everyone agreed was the finest restaurant in town, and inexpensive to boot. Others, who communed with the spirits sacred to the indigenous, would drive rusty trucks or well-used gas guzzlers up to Tolani Lake.
By Pitt Griffin4 years ago in Fiction
Trump's ex-Ambassador to Iceland is revealed as an incompetent, erratic, paranoid, lying sadist
Being the Ambassador to Iceland would seem like a cushy gig. The people are friendly, they speak English, the crime rate is low, the music scene is active, and there is nothing like a relaxing dip in heated mineral-rich water to ease a troubled soul. Granted there will not be much lying on the beach, but there is still plenty to do. But Trump’s pick for the position, Jeffrey Ross Gunter, could not handle it.
By Pitt Griffin4 years ago in The Swamp
