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Jethro Pili

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Aug, 2021

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150 Stories

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The Prydwen Sails Again

Part IArthur “Art” Llewellyn had never been much of a believer in destiny. He believed in coffee, in deadlines, in the quiet tick-tick of the clock above his apartment door as he worked late into the night. He believed in his cat, Melon, who reliably sat on his keyboard whenever Art tried to finish a sentence. Mostly, he believed in keeping his head down, minding his business, and avoiding any problem that looked remotely mythic, catastrophic, or even mildly inconvenient.Which was why the package on his doorstep at 6:12 a.m. on a wind-whippe...

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ASK A FRIAR — EPISODE 47: “THE FOOTBALL FIASCO”

“Dear Father Spencer Vale, what is to be done about our parish priest? A fellow parishioner was in the very back pew on his phone watching football. Broncos vs. Chargers. Instead of reprimanding him, our priest yelled from the pulpit, ‘What’s the score, son?!?’ then proceeded to hoot and holler, fists in the air when the Broncos scored a touchdown. It was a disgrace, Father! What do we do here?” PART I — THE SETUP: CAMERA, CASSOCK, ACTIONFather Spencer Vale leaned forward toward the camera, his brown Franciscan hood draped loosely behind him...

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Where Two Roads Meet

The bell tower of St. Athanasius Seminary rang with a kind of solemn cheer that first morning—cheer for those beginning a great vocation, solemn for those realizing how far from home they now stood. Autumn lay like a coppery quilt across the grounds: rust-gold leaves, crisp air, the scent of cedar from the cloister walk. New students—wide-eyed, anxious, hopeful—moved through the campus like pilgrims trying to pretend they weren’t lost.Tristan Greene stood among them, though slightly apart.He was tall, thin, sharp in the angles, with thoughtf...

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The Longest Parting

Dani always hated endings.She said that once while sprawled across her favorite corduroy beanbag in my dorm room, twirling a pen between her fingers. “Endings suck,” she declared. “I like middles. Middles are comfy. Middles are where you can breathe.”But life, as I would learn again and again, doesn’t ask for our permission before it ends chapters. It just turns pages.That truth arrived for me on a fog-thick November morning, years after she first said it—when the world felt like it was drifting apart at the seams, and I was clinging to the ...

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Raan Losti

Raan Losti was upon us: a time of great change, our Elders called it.They said it in hushed tones around the glowpits, their wrinkled faces lit by flecks of emberlight that danced like nervous fireflies. They had seen two Raan Losti cycles before—both marked by upheaval, war, dissolutions of worlds and the births of new ones. But this one felt different. Heavier. As if the whole sky trembled beneath something unseen.I did not believe in ancient omens then. I was a cartographer, a star-mapper for the Ascendant Fleet, and numbers had always sp...

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The Last Kiss in the Parlor

The spring of 1861 arrived in Charleston County with an uneasy blend of jasmine-sweet breezes and the crisp metallic scent of impending war. It was the strangest thing, James Whitfield thought—that the season of rebirth should herald the slow unraveling of everything he knew. Birds still sang from every oak and magnolia, insistently cheerful against a backdrop of whispered dread, as if nature herself refused to acknowledge the tension rising like a storm swell across the South.But on the morning that would define the rest of his life—the mor...

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The Gravelight Visitor

Someone has been to my grave.I can tell before I rise fully from the soil, before my thoughts piece themselves together in the slow, syrupy way they do each dawn, before I remember—again—that I do not breathe. The earth carries the memory of footsteps the way skin carries the memory of touch, and my patch of it tingles with the echo of a presence.Someone was here.Someone living.I move without moving. A shift in intention is all it takes to drift above the grass, above the carved stone with my name, above the wilted bouquet that has no busine...

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Skeletons in the Closet

A 3,000-Word Investigative Drama Starring Jodie Williams of the Seabrook Viking News Jodie Williams had covered corruption before—mayors who skimmed a little off the top, council members who let their brothers-in-law cut in line for housing permits, police chiefs who looked the other way when a friend’s bar stayed open past 2 a.m. But nothing prepared her for Elroy Oakes.The man smiled too much. That was the first thing she’d noticed. Politicians smiled, sure, but Mayor Oakes smiled like a man who was absolutely convinced he’d never be c...

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The Girl Who Wouldn’t Fall

A Seabrook Viking News Story The alert came through at 10:14 a.m.Not the usual chatter. Not the breaking-news ping that meant a local council member had been caught on the wrong side of the law again, or the mayor had posted something regrettably philosophical on Facebook. No — this was different. This was a sound the newsroom never forgot, because it only ever meant one thing:A journalist was dead.Sam Ihle heard Grace Orozco gasp before he saw the screen. Her hand flew to her mouth as the color drained from her face.“What?” Sam asked, r...

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The Haunting of Elliot Gray

Trigger Warning: Character death due to illness (i.e., cancer) Elliot Gray did not believe in ghosts until the night his wife died.For most of his adult life, his world had been grounded in science, statistics, oncology reports, and the grim numerical progression that came with watching someone he loved disappear one cell at a time. Olivia had been the one who believed in signs, in feathers on doormats, in loved ones visiting in dreams. She had spoken gently of the veil thinning, of the spirit persisting, of love refusing to die even ...

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The Weight of the Music Box: A Story of Father Tristan Greene

The microphone light flicked on—a soft red glow in the small podcast studio tucked behind the parish office. Father Tristan Greene sat across from the host, a genial layman named Paul Martens, whose radio voice always reminded Tristan of a friendly uncle telling bedtime stories. The name of the show was Faith Unshaken, a popular Catholic podcast about miracles, mysteries, and moments of grace under fire.Paul smiled. “Welcome back, friends. Today, we have a very special guest. He’s been called Boston’s modern-day exorcist, though he prefers t...

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Fish Out of Water

Edward Park never liked elevators. They made him feel trapped — no sky, no wind, no sound but the sterile hum of machinery and the breathing of strangers. The doors of the Martin & Moss tower slid open with a soft hydraulic sigh, and he stepped into a world of glass, chrome, and tailored suits.He straightened his tie, the one his mother had bought him when he’d won his first case back in Willow Creek. The tie was navy with tiny silver scales, like fish skin in sunlight. It had felt lucky then. Today, it felt like a relic.A receptionist s...

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The Window At The End of Ward C

1They say the window isn’t real, but I have pressed my palm to its pane so often that I could draw the faint frost-flowers with my eyes closed. It lives at the very end of Ward C’s corridor, past the nurses’ station and the peeling mural of a meadow that someone, long ago, thought would be “soothing.”Dr. Halvorsen calls it a hallucination. “A projection of desire,” he says, pen scratching in his leather notebook. “You imagine a way out because you cannot face your circumstances.”I am not so sure. The city that glitters beyond the glass has t...

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The Phantom Cat

The rain over Kiev had turned the battlefield into a quilt of ash-gray puddles and shredded earth. Smoke coiled out of the ruins like the last breath of a dying dragon. Somewhere beneath the churned mud and scorched rubble, something was waiting.Sergeant Ilya Kovalenko crouched behind the crumbling wall of an apartment block, goggles streaked with grit. His unit had been wiped out in the predawn assault; only he and Corporal Sloane, a lanky American liaison, remained. Drones circled high above, scanning for survivors, but the real danger lay...

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Somebody Goofed

CONTENT WARNING: Substance abuse, suicide, vehicular accident/slight hint of gore The sirens painted the alley red and blue, ricocheting off brick walls slick with evening drizzle. Paramedics crouched over the limp body of Brady Kane—twenty-two, bones sharp against paper-thin skin, a needle still dangling from the crook of his arm.“Charge to two-fifty,” one medic barked. The defibrillator pads stuck to Brady’s chest like white flags.A crowd pressed against the yellow tape: neighbors, stragglers from the liquor store, kids with phones raised....

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