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Jethro Pili

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Aug, 2021

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150 Stories

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Unlikely Truce

Unlikely Truce (Castles of Sand)The first time Charles Whitmore and Vincent Devereux shared a drink, it was because neither of them had anywhere else to go.That statement would have sounded absurd to anyone in New York.Charles Whitmore owned half a dozen steel mills, three newspapers, and a mansion on Fifth Avenue so large that tourists occasionally stopped outside its gates and asked if it was a museum.Vincent Devereux was the railroad king of the Eastern Seaboard. His summer estate on Long Island occupied nearly forty acres and boasted a b...

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Xena

The smell of smoke never frightened me.Not the good kind, anyway.Not the old familiar smell that clung to turnout coats hanging in lockers. Not the scent that lingered on boots after a long call. Not the smell that drifted through Fire Station 87 when the engines rolled home at three in the morning and tired firefighters stumbled through the bay doors looking like they'd wrestled dragons.That smell meant my people were home.My name is Xena.Retired firehouse mascot.Professional nap enthusiast.Part-time squirrel security officer.Full-time love...

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Burying The Hatchet

The first thing Dr. Fatima Sulaymani noticed was the sound.Not the thump-thump-thump of the helicopter blades cutting through the humid evening air above St. Catherine Mercy Hospital. Not the crackle of the trauma radio clipped to her scrub collar. Not even the distant chorus of ambulance sirens bleeding through the rain.It was the metallic clang of surgical instruments hitting a tray somewhere down the hall, followed by a voice sharp enough to cut bone.“You contaminated the field before you even draped him.”Fatima closed her eyes.Of course....

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Aardvark Grill

The smell hit first.Not one smell, but a hundred braided together beneath the low hum of ancient ceiling fans: fryer oil popping in the kitchen, garlic butter melting over steak fries, tomato soup steaming in ceramic bowls, burnt coffee from the self-serve station, cinnamon from fresh churros at the dessert counter, cheap cologne, expensive perfume, rain-damp denim, old books, warm plastic trays, and the faint electric smell of an overworked soda fountain.The Aardvark Grill at John Arthur University always became chaos after Professor Jeffer...

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Blue Light Is True Light

The town of Blackwater Crossing sat buried beneath January.Snow gathered in crooked heaps atop the roofs of old mining cabins that had somehow survived another year.Elias Mercer tugged his scarf higher and squinted against the wind as he trudged along the riverbank.He hated mornings.He hated winter more.But his landlord hated late rent most of all, which was why Elias was currently ankle-deep in snow checking fishing traps before dawn instead of sleeping beneath three blankets with his cat curled against his feet.“Remind me,” he muttered to ...

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Call It Kismet

Saturday mornings belonged to Trystan Lyons.Not to spreadsheets or tax codes or clients who emailed him at 11:43 p.m. with subject lines marked URGENT because they had suddenly discovered the IRS existed. Saturdays were sacred. Saturdays were for sleeping in until seven-thirty instead of six. Saturdays were for clean shirts, good coffee, and brunch at the same café he had been frequenting for nearly four years.The ritual mattered.In a profession where numbers had to reconcile perfectly and every decimal point carried consequence, rituals gro...

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The Waiting

The door slammed hard enough to rattle dust from the cedar beams overhead.Everyone in the Upper Room jumped.For one terrible instant, every soul there thought the soldiers had returned.But it was only Peter.He stood in the doorway breathing like a hunted beast, chest heaving beneath a torn outer cloak stained with dirt and sweat and streaks of someone else’s blood. His hair hung wild around his face. One sandal strap had snapped entirely, and the leather dragged behind him like a broken tether.No one spoke.Jerusalem outside groaned with Pass...

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The Wind That Blows My Love

October 3rd, 1863Near Culpeper Courthouse, VirginiaDearest Francesca,The pigeon-master says I must write smaller because General Beauregard’s birds are not built to carry the complete works of Shakespeare upon their legs. I told him I only intended to send one sonnet’s worth of longing and misery to Charleston.He answered that longing weighs more than ammunition.I reckon he is right.The bird carrying this letter is a gray hen called Jubilee. She bites fingers and struts like a colonel inspecting troops. If she arrives pecking at your window,...

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Blessed Are The Peacemakers For They Shall Get Punched

The first punch landed beside the trifle.Not in it, thankfully. Mrs. Hargreaves had spent all Saturday layering sponge cake, custard, raspberry jam, and whipped cream into the great crystal bowl that sat like a crown jewel in the middle of St. Bartholomew’s parish hall. Had the punch landed two inches lower, half the congregation might have witnessed seventy-two-year-old Edith Hargreaves commit a murder with a serving spoon.Instead, the blow struck Colin Mercer square in the jaw.The hall fell silent.A fork clattered against a plate somewhere...

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Death Aboard the Eidolon

The yacht Eidolon cut through the black Atlantic like a silver knife.Moonlight glazed the water in long ribbons, and the sea breathed against the hull with the slow patience of some immense sleeping creature. Above deck, rigging creaked softly in the wind. Below, behind polished mahogany walls and velvet drapery, eight guests sat around a dinner table lit by wavering candlelight.The dining salon smelled faintly of cigar smoke, sea salt, and roasted pheasant.Captain Alistair Vale stood at the head of the table with one hand resting on the bac...

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For Longshore

The wind off the sea smelled wrong.Too warm.Too coppery.Old Nan Barrow stood on the cliffs above Longshore with her shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders, staring into the darkness beyond the surf. The moon silvered the water, but farther inland—past the dunes, beyond the black teeth of the pine forest—fires burned.Too many fires.Orcs.Not raiding bands this time. Not drunken marauders looking for sheep and women and silver cups.An army.Nan crossed herself and whispered a prayer through her remaining teeth.Below her, Longshore did not slee...

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He Said, She Said

The rain began before dawn and never really stopped.Not the cinematic kind that crashes against windows in righteous fury. This rain was thin and cold and stubborn, hanging over Seabrook like a gray bedsheet. By noon, the gutters along Saint Brendan’s Cathedral were overflowing, and every mourner entering the church carried the scent of wet wool and damp umbrellas.Inside, incense tried and failed to conquer the smell.The vestibule buzzed with whispers.“He was one of the bravest men I ever knew.”“He also once punched a hole through a newsroom...

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70 x 7

Father Lance Lake had a drawer he never opened.It sat in the bottom left corner of the old oak desk in the parish office of Saint Brigid’s, swollen slightly from humidity, the brass handle tarnished by years of neglect. Parish records filled the other drawers. Baptismal certificates. Funeral arrangements. Donation receipts. The ordinary paper trail of ordinary souls trying to find God between weddings and wakes.But the bottom left drawer held something else entirely.Lance unlocked it only when no one else was around.Inside was a collection o...

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Lonely But Not Alone

The parish house was too quiet after nine o’clock.That was the hour Father Lance Lake hated most.The phones stopped ringing. The church secretary had long since gone home. The sacristy lights were dark. The last old ladies who lingered after novenas had finally shuffled to their Buicks and Cadillacs. Even the neighborhood dogs seemed to stop barking after nine.And then there was only the ticking clock in the rectory kitchen.Tick.Tick.Tick.Lance stood at the sink in shirtsleeves and collar, rinsing a coffee mug he did not even remember dirtyi...

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Home Is Wherever I’m With You

The key stuck for half a second in the lock.That never happened.Sam Ihle stood in the dim hallway of the Harbor Arms Apartments with one hand braced against the frame and the other still gripping the stubborn brass key. The fluorescent light overhead buzzed like a dying hornet, washing the corridor in pale yellow misery. Somewhere three doors down, somebody’s television blared an old game show theme. A baby cried. Pipes rattled in the walls.Sam closed his eyes.“Come on,” he muttered to the lock.The key finally turned.The apartment door swung...

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