Sarah Driggers
Bio
Lover of all things literary. Former gifted kid who took the long route around life. Quirky creative type looking to share and discover good stories.
Stories (8)
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Forever Hold Your Peace
“It’s not too late to call this off,” my best friend Amanda says, as she finishes zipping up my wedding dress. “I mean I’ve got your back if shit goes sideways, but it might be easier to just prevent this disaster altogether.” This is her way of reminding me that she’s on my side no matter what and that she’s one of Atlanta’s preeminent divorce attorneys. I’m not sure what to say as I look at our reflection in the mirror, focusing on her concerned expression so I don’t have to stare too long and hard at the little bit of back fat that spills out of the top of the strapless white gown. My makeup is flawless. I love my long black lashes and my bright red lips, the way my dark brown hair frames my face and reflects tiny bits of red-gold in the natural sunlight. It almost distracts from the slight silhouette of my belly, held in tightly by the compression undergarments I’m wearing underneath the dress. Or as my mother reminded me before leaving me alone with Amanda to finish getting dressed, “Don’t forget your girdle, Jessica,” brandishing the thing at me, looking surprised that I’ve actually decided to wear something this uncomfortable.
By Sarah Driggers4 years ago in Fiction
Last Piece of Chocolate Cake With My Father
Our favorite diner is nearly empty as I wander in from the night, starlight and the sound of the occasional passing car on Main Street replaced by the warm glow of the pendant lights reflecting off the sparkling red and white booths inspired by the gleaming candy apple paint job of a 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air and the sounds of That’ll Be The Day by Buddy Holly playing on the jukebox. I’m not exactly sure how I got here, but as the scent of scratch-made biscuits baking in the oven wafts toward me, I realize that I’m hungry. Christina, our waitress almost Tuesday for a year, greets me with a bright smile. “Hi! He’s already here waiting for you,” she calls out from across the restaurant as she finishes wiping down the counter.
By Sarah Driggers4 years ago in Fiction
Moonshine Requiem
The brisk winter wind stung Lillian’s cheeks as she gazed silently at the empty horse stalls inside the run-down old barn, remembering the first time she had talked to Jack Warren seventy-two years ago. Her fingers ached from the cold as she raised the battered silver flask to her lips and took a sip of the moonshine, relishing the warmth of the whiskey’s afterbite. She hardly ever drank, and her granddaughter would be aghast to find her out here in the cold, but Lillian had celebrated her wedding anniversary in this same fashion every year since Jack had passed, and she wasn’t about to let a bit of arthritis get in the way of tradition now.
By Sarah Driggers5 years ago in Fiction
Asylum
The first explosion happened at 2:37 A.M. I am awakened from a fitful sleep by the rumbling of the earth underneath us and the piercing sound of the sirens that had been recently installed by the Regime as an early warning system for the siege that had felt inevitable for some time. Tremors shake the high-rise apartment building in the Capitol District that Silas called home. As the country had begun its sharp descent into anarchy and armed conflict days ago, my nerves had given way, leaving me crying and gasping for air on the bathroom floor of my home a few blocks away, unable to withstand the onslaught of adrenaline coursing through my body. That’s where Silas found me. He had knelt down on the cold tile floor beside me, holding me close and whispering soothing words, his hands stroking my tangled hair and rubbing comforting circles on my back. “Eliza, come stay with me,” he murmured.
By Sarah Driggers5 years ago in Fiction
Stupid on Fire
No one could ever have guessed that the apocalypse would start with a malfunctioning spray tan booth and an overcooked ten-piece box of chicken nuggets from the O’Connell’s drive-thru three blocks down from the President’s official residence. When Norman Maldonado had taken office two years ago, there were many who doubted his ability to lead the most powerful nation on Earth. There were those who questioned whether the heir to the Plush toilet paper fortune turned reality star of Filthy Rich fame could handle being the leader of the free world. Admittedly, he had struggled. This presidential gig was hard. But the country was still standing. At least until today, anyway.
By Sarah Driggers5 years ago in Fiction
Air Hunger
189,216,000. That’s how many breaths we are allowed during our short lives here in the Colony before we are sent out into the Wasteland. Most people make it to thirty years of age, give or take, before walking out of the protective dome that preserves our air supply. As a small act of mercy, the Tribunal allows you to take a respirator with you. It keeps you alive for half an hour or so as you make your peace with death. No one ventures out into the Wasteland to collect your body.
By Sarah Driggers5 years ago in Fiction
Could You Love Me Like This?
Dr. Xander Murphy of the Pangaea Institute for the Unbeautiful stared at his own face in the mirror, running his fingers over the scar on his cheek that was not quite as noticeable under the short, scratchy beard he had grown in the last two days. It was the only reminder of the accident that could have ended his career, and the beard would cover it completely in five or ten days days’ time. Beckett had done a good job repairing the laceration, and his friend and fellow surgeon could be trusted not to tell anyone. For now he would simply have to be careful, using the basement-level back entrance that led through the morgue, taking the seldom used staircase in the east wing instead of the elevator in the atrium used by all of his coworkers, and wearing his blue surgical mask as often as possible. In the weeks following the accident, he had taken a leave of absence, claiming he had checked himself into a posh facility in New Washington that specialized in treating those suffering from PTSD. In reality, he had shut himself in his penthouse apartment with a bottle of bourbon.
By Sarah Driggers5 years ago in Fiction
Gifted Kid to Car Salesman
People are motivated by many different things in life. As a child, I found my niche early. I was a nerd, if you will. Think Hermione Granger with her hand raised high, bouncing up and down in her seat, eager to answer the question correctly. I sat in the front row, did all of the homework, obeyed all the rules, and had paralyzing anxiety at the mere thought of failure. The school once asked my parents if they were comfortable with me skipping middle school entirely. Fifth grade to high school freshman, just like that. Being this obsessed with perfection, it naturally followed that I was socially awkward. Very socially awkward. So thankfully, my parents passed on this offer.
By Sarah Driggers5 years ago in Confessions
