Here’s a little sampler of my story, “With Ale, We Fear No Evil”:

“Where, oh where is that blasted friar?” Mannix murmured as he exited the hall of cells. It was a cloudy day, as usual; every so often, the sky would spit down at the resident monks of St. Cullen’s, coincidentally whenever he stepped out. Almost everybody at the monastery was gathered or gathering in the abbey for the early morning mass, but the nigh-on middle-aged monk had a different task at hand before he could settle down for worship.
The grounds were barren and green, devoid of anyone else except the gardeners that scraped the grime from their sodden hands; they issued polite and quiet nods to Mannix as they passed him by on their way to the house of prayer. The monk didn’t notice though, for his mind was on other things, frustrating things.
He first checked inside and around the brewhouse near the west end, but it was as abandoned as it should’ve been (to some surprise). He then poked his head into the infirmary to find it empty and cold. After that, as he passed by the storerooms and the granary, he slowed to inspect the area for the missing habitué’s presence, but there wasn’t a single hint. Next, he quietly stepped through the door of the guest lodgings after remembering that a group of tradeswomen and their male escort were staying for two days on the way to the port of Leiffien. The escort snored alone by the door and the women silently cuddled together in a larger bunk; he counted four heads at the far end of the rising and sinking blankets, so all was as it should’ve been.
Finally, he dreadfully made his way to the butchery by the far side of the stables and the pigsties. He found the inside of the modest shed to be nicely kempt, its floors and carving tables just recently scrubbed, but something else prodded him then as he pinched attentively at his lips. He thought he could hear the echoes of song bouncing through the adjacent stable hall.
“In olden Kelf,
Right on the shelf,
There sat some bottles red,
But by the morn,
With colored scorn,
We had nothing but bread.
The merlot went to Conor
While the malbec went to Bonner,
The bar-bra went to Ennest,
Heavens me! Had I drank the rest?!”