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Jethro Pili

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Aug, 2021

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30 Followers
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150 Stories

328 karma pts

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The Slap Heard ‘Round the Cookout

For the Thompsons, Independence Day was sacred. Not for the usual reasons—flag-waving patriotism, backyard fireworks, or Uncle Jack’s annual recitation of the Declaration of Independence after two hard lemonades. No, for the Thompsons, the Fourth of July was about one thing: the Cookout. They were always the talk of the town, in a good way, of course.Cheryl Thompson had been planning it for months—Pinterest boards, color-coded RSVPs, a new gas grill that glistened like a Bentley. Her husband, Doug, had been assigned simpler tasks: “Don’t bur...

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Fire in the Desert Sand

The desert wind howled low and mournful over the forward operating base, hurling dust against the battered concrete barriers like ghostly fists. Corporal Luke Parrish knelt behind the Hesco walls, clutching his Bible like a lifeline. His squad was on night patrol rotation again, and the evening brought no solace—only silence, sweat, and a loneliness that gnawed deeper than the sandstorms.Luke had grown up in a tiny town in Missouri where the local church sat at the center of life, both spiritual and social. His family prayed together before ...

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A Dream Come True

Edward Yu wasn’t used to taking vacations.Not because he didn’t want to — he did — but because when you’re the CFO of one of the fastest-growing tech companies in America, vacations tended to look like missed opportunities, lost momentum, or worse, slipping behind.He lived in numbers, schedules, charts, and margins. His family, on the other hand, lived in hope.For months, Stephen (15), Scarlett (13), Esther (10), and little Edmund (8) had begged for one thing if they aced their finals: a trip to Disneyland.They hadn’t just aced their finals ...

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I Got Lost & Ended Up In Henderson

When Evan and Marissa Bellows woke up on the second Saturday of March, the plan was simple: drive to Los Angeles, meet with their tax preparer, sign some forms, and be home before dinner. Tax season was always a headache for both of them, as it was for the rest of the country, so they were very grateful for their tax preparer. They lived in San Bernardino, an easy hour just east of LA if the traffic gods were merciful — which they rarely were — but it was still doable. They had made the appointment a month ago, neatly written on their kitche...

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Wexbridge Manor

The carriage wheels crunched over the gravel drive, the sound like a thousand tiny bones breaking underfoot. Inside, the newly-minted Duchess Eleanor of Wexbridge smoothed the folds of her traveling gown and peered out the window as the vast estate unfurled before her eyes.Her new home.A gust of wind sent the banners atop the stone turrets flapping furiously, each one bearing the Duke’s crest—a rampant lion and a ring of thorns. The building itself loomed, older than she had expected, grand but worn, as if the centuries weighed upon its very...

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Beneath Rosewood

Rosewood High School sat like a brick laid flat on the small town of Rosewood, Oregon—sturdy, red, and unsuspicious. There were lockers with chipped paint, mystery meat Thursdays in the cafeteria, and that constant faint smell of bleach and sweat lingering in the gymnasium. It was the most normal school anyone had ever known. But normal is often camouflage. It started with a cough. Not from a student, but from Mr. Reilly, the AP Bio teacher. He was always punctual, stern, and unshakably boring. One day, right in the middle of his lesson abou...

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Avalon, The Isle of Apples

I. The Isle That Was There are places that live only in memory, or myth, or in the silvered pages of books so old they crack when opened. Avalon was such a place. The Isle of Apples. The sanctuary of kings. The cradle of enchantment. But before it vanished, it was. Avalon floated like a dream in the western sea, hidden by mists not of weather but of will. An island of soft hills and silver rivers, where the air tasted of honey and wind, and the trees bore fruit in every season. The apples were not just sweet—they healed. They sang. Some said...

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Merlinus Magus the Magnificent

The lights at the Fool Us stage blazed to life, sweeping across the velvet curtain as Jonathan Ross’s voice echoed grand and regal: “Ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves to be amazed! Please welcome… Merlinus Magus the Magnificent!” The audience cheered, unsure whether the name was an ironic gimmick or not. A man in a deep purple tailcoat with a high collar strode onstage, his eyes twinkling behind round spectacles. His beard curled like a wizard’s, and he carried a staff—not a wand, a full-on wizard’s staff, silver inlaid with amethys...

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The Art of the Excuse

They called him a LINO. “Leader In Name Only.” It was a running joke in the youth group at New Hope Fellowship. Aaron Shepherd, pastor’s kid, junior in high school, and default scapegoat. When the youth group forgot to pray before the pizza arrived—Aaron got a passive-aggressive text from one of the deacons. When one of the sixth graders had a meltdown after being kept out past midnight on a school night—Aaron’s dad, Pastor Mark Shepherd, got an angry phone call from the boy’s mother demanding to know why the “pastor’s son” didn’t ensur...

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Midnight In Motion (Mick’s POV)

I don’t remember the last time I was home before midnight. That’s not even a brag. It’s just the truth. The whole thing started last summer—when my dad grounded me for staying out past curfew with the guys. We were just at the skate park, but he acted like I’d joined a gang. Locked me down for two weeks, no phone, no guitar, no nothing. That’s when I realized something: if I was gonna be treated like a criminal, I might as well have some fun with it. So I started sneaking out. I’d wait till Mom went to bed, then count to 600 in my head. By t...

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The Line Was Too Long

CONTENT WARNING: Death, tragedyIt was a late Sunday morning glazed in gray and black.Outside, it rained soft and steady over the town of Bellemere, Virginia, pattering against the windows of Mercy Hill Hospice like a gentle metronome. Inside Room 207, every breath was a battle.Robert Asbury, once a builder of homes and teller of long-winded stories, now lay withered and hollow-chested, each breath pulled in by sheer will. Tuberculosis, in its cruel, final march, had stolen nearly everything from him—his booming voice, his ability to walk, hi...

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The Comedy Clinic

THE COMEDY CLINICMotto: “Because laughter is the best medicine, really!”The Comedy Clinic was not a clinic, which caused confusion daily. Its neon sign blinked inconsistently—“THE COMEDY CLI—IC”—so it wasn’t uncommon for people to stumble in expecting a flu shot and leave with a drink, a blistering roast, and a vague sense of betrayal.Nestled between a pawn shop and a psychic who only spoke in limericks, The Comedy Clinic was the city’s only bar where stand-up comedy was mandatory and sobriety optional. The owner, one Dr. Chuckles—real name ...

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Around The World In 80 Days

Amy Collins sat at her cubicle, staring at the blinking cursor in an email she had no interest in finishing. The faint hum of fluorescent lights above blended with the muffled clickety-clack of keyboards and hushed conversations. The office smelled faintly of stale coffee and too many repressed dreams.It wasn’t that Amy hated her job. She had once loved it—or at least convinced herself she did. Project management at a mid-sized tech company had its perks: predictable income, health insurance, a good 401(k) match. But over the years, the dail...

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Zero Hour: The Watch Below

0400 Hours — Groton, Connecticut Naval Submarine Base New London Pier 6, Berth BravoThe wind off the black ocean bit through fleece and leather and cotton alike. It was that kind of cold that sunk through to your bones—not just physical, but emotional, psychological. It made you reflect. It made you quiet.Six men stood on the pier, their boots clacking softly against the wet concrete, duffel bags slung over their shoulders or dropped at their feet. Not much talking, just a few quiet words here and there. Most of what needed saying had alre...

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The Piper on the Hill

The quickening gray light of predawn filtered through the slats of the blinds, turning the cinderblock walls of Room 303 a pale blue. On any other day, Sam Ihle might have slept through it. But not today. A low, reedy wail pierced the stillness, rising and falling in mournful tones. At first, Sam thought it was part of a dream—maybe the background music to a dream he couldn't quite remember. But it got louder. And clearer. Then it hit him. Bagpipes. “Andrew?” he croaked, still half-buried under his comforter. Andrew McBride groaned from ac...

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