Mary Driver-Thiel
My Writing
Welcome.
Below you'll find my writing.
Flash fiction, short stories, etc.
More to come
A Lesson in
Ecology
by Mary Driver-Thiel
In the waning of the day, the meadow sparkles with purple asters. Spun-gold grasses rustle in a breeze carrying the scent of wild bergamot. It is the time of year when light fades quickly, and to enter the forest beyond the meadow is to invite harm. Branches, brittle and overgrown with anger, strike without sympathy.
Usually, flocks of birds gather at the silent pool where the meadow creeps into the thick brethren of the forest, where leafless branches crack the sky. This time, a solitary snowy egret, utterly still, waits alone. A white silhouette in high contrast to the indigo water.
White, symbolic of death, glides soundlessly through the gloaming.
Second Thoughts
by Mary Driver-Thiel
She swallows the last of the bourbon in her glass, wishing she’d gone for a double. She hates the son-of-a-bitch across the table. Hates his aura of certainty, his crisp white shirt, his smug lavender silk necktie. He’d wanted to buy her that double, but she’d refused, needing to draw a boundary somewhere.
The swizzle stick in her hands snaps in two, and he regards her coolly. His eyes are astral blue, a color she knows well. She sees it every Sunday morning. The color of a virgin’s robe, of heaven, peace, and salvation.
Late afternoon sun sends long swords of light through the tall hotel windows. A flurry of dust motes float and tease the Light. Playful, as if there will be no remorse.
Her hand goes to the base of her throat, an automatic gesture she’d done a hundred thousand times, but the slim gold cross lies at home on her dresser. She won’t allow it to be a party to her sins.
Ready? he asks, reaching for her hand across the table.
She hides her small, shuddering breath behind a smile and allows him to lead her away.
Civilian Again
by Mary Driver-Thiel
The shrapnel in Whitcomb’s hip fights against his lurch along the train platform so that he sweats with pain in the biting March wind. He sinks his chin deep in the folds of his scarf, side-eyeing the grayness of the world, angry with its pervasive indifference. He is exhausted. A year and sixteen days out of harm’s way. At least, not the same harm’s way. He sighs audibly with fatigue.
Ten feet down the platform, a child rides in the safety of its mother’s arms, fixing round eyes on Whit, offering him a baby-toothed grin. Whitcomb raises his chin. The child responds by flexing a rainbow-mittened hand. A tiny prism of hope within the gray.