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Jethro Pili

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Aug, 2021

Stories (223)

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30 Followers

41 Following

223 Stories

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A Quick Little Game of Chess

Jethro Pili

Pria Chopra entered the dimly lit bathroom of Le Papillon Rouge, a swanky restaurant nestled in the heart of Paris. She walked in as one person and would walk out as another.  She locked the stall door behind her and took a deep breath. The sound of muffled jazz and clinking glasses from the dining room filtered in through the door. It was showtime.  Reaching into her clutch, she pulled out a compact mirror, a tiny vial of solvent, and a small, flesh-toned patch. She pressed the patch against her cheek, counted to three, and peeled...

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Adonis

Jethro Pili

The rain pattered gently against the windowpane as I sat at the kitchen table, watching the gray clouds roll by. A steaming cup of coffee rested in my hands—black, no sugar, just the way he liked it. It was a small thing, a comforting routine, and one that tied me to the only person I had ever truly known.  “Morning, son.”  I turned to see my father—Arthur Greene—standing in the doorway, his graying hair still damp from his morning shower. He wore a faded navy bathrobe, tied loosely at the waist, and a warm, familiar smile.  “...

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Higher Ground

Jethro Pili

The first tremor hit at 3:47 p.m.  David Reyes had been staring at his computer screen, drowning in the monotony of editing a client’s marketing deck, when the building lurched beneath him. It was slow at first, like the city itself had sighed in exhaustion, but then came the violent shaking. His coffee mug slid off his desk and shattered. Monitors toppled. The walls groaned.  Someone screamed.  David dove under his desk as the ceiling lights flickered and the glass walls around the office creaked ominously. The 4th floor of t...

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Blood & Brick

Jethro Pili

The room is unfamiliar. I don’t know how I got here.  The air is damp, thick with the scent of rust and mildew. Pipes run along the wooden ceiling and exposed beams, whispering with the steady flow of water. A hulking boiler crouches in the far corner, exhaling the occasional hiss of steam. The floor beneath me is cold stone.  I sit up.  The scrape of shifting metal echoes in the stillness, and I realize—I was inside something. My fingers trail over the edge of the ornate box, the cool surface unmistakably stone. It’s not just...

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The Man in the Rain

Jethro Pili

The heavy rain drummed steadily against the roof of the old farmhouse, a rhythmic patter that usually lulled the cousins to sleep. But not tonight.  Lightning split the sky, illuminating the fields beyond the house in stark white brilliance. For the briefest of moments, everything was visible—the darkened trees, the sagging barn with its faded and peeling red paint exposing the rotting wood beneath, the crooked split-rail fence, and beyond it, a figure standing motionless in the storm.  Joel was the first to see him. He had been ly...

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La Buldog de la Familia Báez

Jethro Pili

The courtroom was charged with an energy that only a trial like this could produce. It wasn’t just any case—it was a battle of justice, one that Assistant District Attorney Katrina Báez had been preparing for months. The defendant, a high-profile real estate mogul accused of fraud and bribery, sat at the defense table with a smug expression, flanked by his team of high-priced attorneys. He was used to winning. Katrina was determined to break that streak.  Outside, the storm raged in tandem with her passion. Rain lashed against the court...

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The Wails of Cocytus

Jethro Pili

The wind never stopped on 52 Cocytus b. It howled through the frozen canyons, shrieked across the barren ice plains, and battered the weathered structures of Outpost Epsilon with a relentless, unceasing fury. The settlers had long since stopped calling it "wind"—it was the planet’s voice, an eternal wailing that sounded like the lamentations of the damned. Mason Holt stood by the reinforced observation window, watching the blizzard swirl outside. Beyond the perimeter floodlights, nothing existed but the white abyss. The ice, the snow, t...

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Night of Terror At St. Augustine’s

Jethro Pili

The rain had been relentless for three days. Heavy sheets of water lashed against the towering Gothic structures of St. Augustine’s Boarding School for Catholic Youngsters, drumming on windows and pooling in the stone-paved courtyards. The sky had been dark for so long that it seemed like night had stretched into infinity, and the rolling thunder was an ever-present companion.  Father Tristan Greene had been expecting the power to go out. The generators were old, and storms like this tended to test their limits. When the lights flickere...

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Because It Is My Name

Jethro Pili

A breeze brushed against Sandy’s skin as she stepped out of the rental car, the crisp autumn air carrying the scent of fallen leaves and damp earth. She pulled her scarf a little tighter around her neck and turned to Kevin, who was stretching after the long drive from Boston.  “You ready for this?” she asked, glancing at the small welcome sign marking the entrance to Salem Village.  Kevin smiled, running a hand through his short-cropped hair. “You know me, history nerd that I am—been ready since we booked the tour.”  Sandy chu...

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The Comfort of Presence

Jethro Pili

The Piznarskis’ home was quiet, filled with the low murmurs of condolences, the unmistakable sound of sniffles and noses blowing, and the occasional clinking of a spoon against a tea cup. The scent of fresh-baked challah and slow-simmered kugel lingered in the air, mingling with the faint traces of the Havdalah spices from the night before. It was the very first day of shiva and the mirrors had been covered, the chairs had been lowered, and the weight of grief pressed upon the house like a heavy, oppressive, unshakable fog. Mourners sat...

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The Twenty-Seven Stab Wounds of Julius Caesar

Jethro Pili

Detective Albert Fernandez gripped the edge of his desk so hard that his knuckles turned white. The whole department could feel the heat radiating off him, a barely contained inferno of frustration. He had been staring at the evidence board for hours, the crime scene photos glaring back at him like a personal insult. There was Reginald Marston III, sprawled across his office floor, dressed like some ancient emperor. A crimson toga, a golden diadem resting askew on his bald head, and twenty-seven stab wounds painting his chest like some ...

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A Quiet Cup of Tea

Jethro Pili

Father Daniel Asher sat back in the rectory chair, a feeling of relief washing over him as the final confession of the day concluded. The church had been unusually quiet this evening, perhaps due to the sudden spring rain that fell in soft, rhythmic sheets against the windows. He never grew tired of the cadence of the confessional. Every so often, someone would come in, weighed down by sins great and small, seeking absolution. Some were eloquent, others nervous, but all of them were in search of peace. Tonight, Daniel felt at ease, knowing h...

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The Briar & The Rose

Jethro Pili

The Briar & The Rose was an unassuming café nestled in the corner of Brennan Street and Glen Lane, just behind St. Augustine’s campus, a hidden gem for faculty and staff. It was only walking distance. A canopy of climbing roses framed the entrance, their scent wafting softly into the open-air seating area shaded by an old oak tree. Inside, the atmosphere was cozy and eclectic—antique furniture, bookshelves crammed with well-loved titles, and a vintage gramophone quietly playing Mozart. It was a sanctuary from the daily chaos of school li...

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Mimosas And Confessions

Jethro Pili

Trigger/Content Warning:Character deathAbuse and control in a relationshipDeath threats The streets of Seabrook were blissfully quiet that Saturday morning, the kind of calm that descended when the world finally decided to stop spinning quite so fast. Sam Ihle savored the rarity as he and Jodie shared a corner table on the patio of a cozy brunch café. It was a rare luxury for two reporters who seemed to thrive on chaos, their fingers always on the pulse of world events. A pot of strong coffee, plates of scrambled eggs and pancakes, and tall ...

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A Very Die Hard Christmas

Jethro Pili

The snow crunched underfoot as Owen shivered on the porch of his family home in rural New Hampshire. The warm, yellow glow from the windows spilled onto the freshly shoveled driveway. Owen smiled as he glanced over his shoulder at his roommate, Andrew, whose face betrayed both awe and nervousness.  "This is it," Owen said with a grin, clutching the doorknob. "Welcome to the chaos."  Andrew shifted his bag to his other shoulder and adjusted his scarf. "This feels like a Norman Rockwell painting. Are you sure they’re okay with me cra...

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