Sweet readers, Thank you for being loyal followers of my website and encouragers of my writing career. The first week of the month I usually post a Flash Fiction story, but his month, the story is slightly over 1000 words, so in the interest of honesty, and y’all know if nothing, I’m honest, it is a Short, Short Story. Last year after picking up Libby, my daughter, from a field trip at 3:30 in the morning, we heard a favorite country song on the radio. I said that I wanted to turn it into a Flash Fiction story, and she suggested that I write it from the woman’s point of view. The song is in the man’s point of view. So after months of thinking about it, I finally did it. I hope you like it. Leave a comment on the website, Instagram, or Facebook if you know the song that inspired this story.  Actually, there’s two, but one is minor. Big points if you figure out that one. And always, Sharing is Caring. Love y’all.

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Ella waved her alleged smartphone above her head through the sunroof of her Honda Civic, lifting her foot off the gas. Fields of green leafy plants waved back at her. They almost seemed to snicker at her—Atlanta girl lost in the country. When the bossy woman directed her off the interstate, it seemed like she was trying to help. The faster Ella could get to the beach on St. Simons Island, the better. But as she turned from one two-lane road to another, the signal lost strength.

The car rolled to a stop at the intersection in the middle of Nowhere, Georgia. She pulled the phone back in the car, but there was still no GPS signal. She collapsed over the steering wheel, blasting the horn.

“Whoa.” A deep voice slipped through the open roof.

Fantastic, now she was hearing voices. Ella lifted her head, out of the corner of her eye, something moved. A man reclined against the side of a flatbed truck full of vegetables. How had she missed him? His jeans hugged his legs, while the muscles of his upper body pushed against his green John Deere t-shirt. Mercy me, they sure do know how to grow them out here.

Pushing off the truck, he ambled over to her window with the most adorable lopsided grin. Her stomach fluttered as he got closer. She gazed at him, her breath becoming heavy. His blue eyes were like the sky on a clear spring day, and his tan skin was kissed by the sun.

A sharp tap to the window shocked her back to the present.

He wrinkled his brow, peering in at her.

Heat scrambled up her neck, burning her cheeks. She was such a fool, ogling at a perfect stranger, but he was like a fine piece of sculpture.

Dropping her fingers on the window button, she tried for a nonchalant smile as the glass separating them lowered.

“Good afternoon, ma’am.”

“Hiee.” Her fingers fluttered beside her face. She cut them a look. What was wrong with her?

“Don’t think you’re looking to buy any collards, so I’m guessing you’re lost.”

She nodded.

“GPS send you off the highway.”

“How’d you know?”

“Happens at least twice a week.” He spun his ball cap around backward, bent over, resting his folded arms in the open window. “Where you headed?”

“St. Simons Island. Girls weekend at the beach. Can’t wait to lounge all day beside the ocean. And I love to get lunch at Boulevard Café and blackened grouper from Crab Daddy’s.”

“You got it all planned.” He grinned.

“Yep.”  Maybe if she kept to one-word answers, she wouldn’t babble on like a dreamy-eyed teenager. She twisted the knob for the air conditioner, dousing them in cold air.

He blinked as the gust from the vent, slapped into his impossibly long dark lashes. For Heaven’s sake, she was doing it again. She grasped the knob, twisting it. “S-sorry.”

“No problem, feels good. After sittin’ out here all mornin’ with nothin’ but a prayer for a breeze.” He met her gaze, letting it linger.

Click here to read the rest of the story.

Lately, it seems I’ve been writing a lot about weddings.  So much can happen when we throw together family and friends. People come with all kinds of expectations and experiences. The book I just finished begins at a wedding, and this short, short story takes place at a wedding reception during the bouquet toss. As a child, I loved trying to catch the bouquet, and as a bride, I couldn’t wait to see who would catch my bouquet. Because I was one of the first of my friends to get married, there was quite a crowd when it came time.  And I can happily report that my friend who caught my bouquet is happily married and so is the guy who caught the garter, although not to each other. (Too bad because that would have made a fun story.) They were so sweet to let me share this picture with you.  Thanks Ronna and Rob.

While my girlhood views were filled with romance, I realize from talking to unmarried friends that this isn’t always the case. This is the perspective I took with this story. I hope you enjoy it.

What is your favorite part of weddings? Do you have any funny stories from weddings? Please share. I’m always looking for inspiration.

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The bouquet of white hydrangeas launched from the bride’s hands and soared into the air, ricocheting off the chandelier. As it plummeted toward Anna, she recoiled, shuddering. Two younger women in skimpy dresses dove in front of her with apparent disregard for maintaining any mystery about their lack of undergarments.

Anna pivoted, abandoning the inevitable tug-of-war, grabbed a glass of champagne and tossed back the bubbles. As she threaded the crowd, she spied another flute of cheer on a service table. She snatched it up and shoved the door open, stumbling into the hall. How many glasses had she consumed? Apparently not enough.

A quiet summer night beckoned her from the other side of the French doors. Her heart pounded to the rhythm of the band’s cover of Brick House. Did every wedding band include that song in its set list? She leaned against the door frame, gazing through the window. The soles of her feet ached. Moonbeams danced across the lawn, leading to the brooding ocean. The music grew louder. She glanced over her shoulder.

A couple danced out of the ballroom, gazing into one another’s eyes. At this point in the night, no one would notice if she disappeared for a while.

Anna dropped her hand onto the door handle and slid it open. She slipped through the narrow space, pulling the door closed behind her. She closed her eyes as she rolled her shoulders, releasing the tension. A warm breeze blew against her face, and she inhaled deeply. The salty air brought a peace she could only find by the sea. She lifted the glass to her lips.

“Hi there.” A deep voice said behind her. “Must be my lucky night.”

Anna’s heart skittered as her throat tightened. She coughed, spewing the champagne.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Her throat burned, and she rubbed her neck as she turned to face the man.

He reclined against the stuccoed wall with one foot crossed over the other and a hand in his pants’ pocket. His bow tie hung loosely around his neck. With the trimmed beard that accentuated his strong jawline and a coy smile, he could have been posing for a men’s clothing ad.

Anna swallowed.

He pushed off the wall and extended his hand as he stepped out of the shadows. “I’m Baker.” He couldn’t be more than thirty. Way too young for her, but . . .

Anna felt the corners of her lips lift. Perhaps, Click here to read the rest of the story.

It’s the first week of the month, and I’m excited to share my first published flash fiction piece. Croquet Kiss was first published in the August edition of Spark magazine. It is set on Jekyll Island during the time when millionaires holidayed on the Island. They often visited during the month of February, fleeing the cold winters of the Northeast. I hope you enjoy.

Croquet Kiss by Leslie DeVooght

Tap.

Clarice’s yellow ball rolled to a stop beside John’s black one. With her precise putt, she’d created an irresistible target.

John pulled back his wooden mallet and swung with gusto. His competitive spirit vanquished his manners.

Thwack.

John’s ball smashed against her ball, sending it sailing over the manicured lawn. It rested in the rough under a sweeping oak. His shot went beyond defense and social graces, but her ball couldn’t have landed in a more perfect location.

Rowdy cheers rose from the gentlemen, entertaining her friends on the veranda of the Jekyll Island Club House.

Clarice glanced to the spectators.

The ladies paused—their glasses of lemonade suspended. They breathed a collective sigh, while their wide brim hats swayed like sailing yachts on an undulating sea.

With a smug grin, John tipped his hat to his friends. His chest swelled, confident of his skill. Surely this surge of masculinity would encourage him to act on the sparks that flew between them.

Clarice bit down on her lip, a smile pushing at the corners. Before John caught a glimpse of her expression, she tossed her white, lace sunhat and marched across the croquet court. She swung her mallet like a drum major’s baton, feigning irritation.

Last night, she’d tarried with John in the beam of the moon on the stoop of her uncle’s vacation cottage. And when John leaned into her, she tilted her chin, lips puckered—ready. But instead of warm lips on hers, he’d lifted her hand and politely pecked the back of her fingers—merely childhood friends.

Ire rose in her, warming her cheeks—time to take matters into her own hands.

“Tsk, tsk, Clarice.” John fell in line behind her. “What will you do now?”

“Hmmph.” She pulled her shoulders back and dabbed a renegade bead of perspiration daring to escape her hairline.

“Come on, please don’t be mad. I was simply following our President’s advice—‘speak softly and carry a big stick.’”

Undoubtedly, Teddy Roosevelt wouldn’t approve of his words being used to describe a lawn sport. And of course, John focused on the stick and not the speaking softly. Besides why were they discussing politics at all—certainly, a twist she hadn’t anticipated. What else could she do to show her willingness and still be called a lady?

She spun and faced him. “I—”

John nearly collided with her, as he waved to his cohorts. He snatched his hand down, and his fingers tangled with hers, then their eyes entwined.

Maybe he’d stop dawdling and draw her to him. Shivers dashed up her arms.

“Sorry.” He broke the trance, pulling his hand from hers.

Her cheeks burned—maybe not.

Click here to read the rest of the story.