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A bolt of lightning scared Yvette out of her morbid thoughts and lit up the sky like an explosion of fireworks. The sky opened up and the rain came down like giant bullets, hitting her shoulders and head with hard precision. Yvette jumped to her feet and ran for her car. It seemed she would remain human for another day.

  At home she dried herself and thought about the handsome stranger whose eyes were too kind for his face. Eyes that must have seen a lot, but chose to be optimistic anyway. A man with his features should have had eyes full of arrogance, vanity, self-reliance, and not such a haunting intelligence.

  Yvette paused, glancing down at the pen in her hand and the thoughts she had scribbled on a napkin. She tore the napkin up, letting it fall like confetti on the table. She would not write. She couldn’t stand the pain. She would think of other things.

  Unfortunately, her mind betrayed her and focused on nothing else but the stranger and the photograph. So deceptive, so beautiful, yet eerily familiar. Why?

  She yawned, tired but resigned. She could not leave a question unanswered. She would visit the gallery again tomorrow.

  ***

  She hadn’t expected to see the stranger there the next day, so she thought it an interesting coincidence when she bumped into him and spilled the contents of her purse on the floor.

  He graciously bent down to help her, picking up her digital recorder and a notebook that had story ideas scribbled in it.

  “Ah, that explains it,” he said, handing her the notebook.

  “Explains what?”

  He nodded towards the notebook she was shoving to the bottom of her bag. “You’re a writer.”

  “I used to be,” she mumbled, retrieving the pens and pencils he was handing her.

  “No. You’re one of those born writers. Even if you physically stop writing, you’ll be writing in your head.”

  “No, writing is an act. You must write to be a writer.”

  “True, but writing is also an occupation. How you see the world and live in it.”

  She found the thought thoroughly depressing.

  “What do you write?” he asked, determined to address her as a writer, although she no longer wanted to see herself as one.

  She stood, adjusting the bag on her shoulder. “What does it matter?” She turned and began to look around the gallery, trying to ignore the fact that the man shadowed her. After a few moments she asked, “Why are you following me?”

  “Because I’m curious to hear what you think of my photographs.”

  She paused, but not from surprise, merely curiosity. “You’re Pierre Dubois,” she said, her tone flat.

  “I was wondering if you would guess.”

  “It figures.” He had been blessed with a face and a mind that people responded to. If the biography she had read about him--the picture of him conspicuously absent--had been correct he’d once been a model. While she with her ordinary features and passionate prose, went unnoticed and continued to do so. She suddenly felt envious of him. Envious of his joy and peace. “Your work is marvelous as you well know. So why do you ask me?” Just like the books and photographs had, she felt that he was in some way mocking her.

  “I had help you know.”

  Yvette sat down and stared at a photograph titled: “Waiting for Freedom.” It was a picture of a puppy waiting by a screen door for its master to return. She scowled. She had given that title to a story once. The coincidence only showed that words belonged to no one. No matter how lovingly she worked with them. They’d never be her own. Shakespeare owned his words, Emily Dickinson owned her words, bell hooks possessed her words—but she owned nothing.

  She wasn’t interested in who had helped him. She didn’t care about him. She didn’t care about anything. Before perhaps, but not now. Not when the blood running through her veins felt like they were congealing, leaving her body numb.

  “Have you ever heard of Sandra Oni?” Pierre said undaunted by her silence.

  Yvette’s heart constricted painfully at the sound of the name. “Yes,” she said, her voice rough, like a cat’s tongue. She didn’t wish to talk about her.

  “I’m surprised. Few people have heard of her. She was my Muse. Still is in many ways. Her words touched me in such a manner that I knew I had to be what I was just in order to honor her prose.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she said, her voice low.

  He cleared his throat and began to recite a quote. His melodious voice giving life to thoughts and feelings she had buried. “ ‘And then I saw myself, rushing, hoping, praying that my mind would not lead me astray into believing I was something I was not, something that was created rather than evolved.’”

  For once Yvette felt something akin to surprise.

  Pierre took her hand in his and stared intently into her face. His kindly brown eyes lighting a candle in her soul. “Why do you think I named my photographs after her stories?”

  Yvette did not respond. Could not respond. Her heart was too full. To be recognized, to be acknowledged, felt so sweet. So the small picture--that she'd initially fought against--at the back of her books hadn't gone unnoticed.

  “It’s not about who you don’t reach,” he said. “It’s about who you do. The pleasure I give to people now is due to the pleasure you gave to me and hopefully will continue to give in the future.”

  “But why—why do you like my work?” Yvette asked, eager to hear praise, eager to receive validation, eager to know that her work mattered.

  “Because you spoke to my soul.” He squeezed her hand. “Be patient. One day the beauty of your words will be known.”

  “And if it never is?” she asked, stating the true fear that had been haunting her.

  He shrugged. “It still lives in the hearts of those who know it.”

  Yvette sighed. “So I must be content with being a ghost?”

  Pierre glanced down at their interlocked fingers. “No, not a ghost. A kindred spirit waiting for flight.” He kissed her hand, offering her promises she hoped he could keep. Again he looked into her face and this time he was rewarded with a smile so beautiful, so stunning that he caught his breath. He had more words to say, but he said them with his eyes instead and Yvette replied with her own. Then he left her, but Yvette knew that he would come back, when he felt she was ready for his presence. She could now feel the blood rushing through her veins. She could feel his lips on her hand, could enjoy the stories that occupied her thoughts and taste the joy in experiencing surprise and delight. She would no longer be a ghost. She could not dishonor her spirit that way, nor spirits like her. Yvette looked up at a passing woman and smiled, then took out her notebook and pen and began to write…

  The End

  ***

  About the Author

  Dara Girard, the award-winning, bestselling author of more than thirty novels, continues to gain new readers with novels such as The Daughters of Winston Barnett and Honest Betrayal. You can visit her website at www.daragirard.com.

  Other Titles by Dara

  If you enjoyed Spare Room or A Thousand Words you might enjoy Dara Girard’s other stories, collections or novels:

  Stories

  A Gift for Philomena

  Ten Days of Grace

  A Home for Adam

  Miss Lana Wilson

  Something New

  * * *

  Or collections...

  Lost and Found

  Five Holiday Tales

  The Lady Next Door and Other Stories

  * * *

  Or novels...

  The Daughters of Winston Barnett

  Illusive Flame

  Honest Betrayal

  The Sapphire Pendant (Book 1 in the Clifton Sisters Series)

  The Amber Stone (Book 2 in the Clifton Sisters Series)

  Discover these books and more at www.iloripressbooks.com

  Copyright Information

  Spare Room

  Copyright 2015 Sadé Odubiyi

  Spare Room is a work of fiction. All characters and events po
rtrayed herein are fictitious and are not based on any real persons living or dead.

  Published by Ilori Press Books LLC

  Cover and Layout by Ilori Press Books LLC

  Cover Photo by Jessada Rungkhakulnuwat/123rf

  A Thousand Words

  Copyright 2014 Sadé Odubiyi

  A Thousand Words is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed herein are fictitious and are not based on any real persons living or dead.

  Published by Ilori Press Books LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any fashion without the express written consent of the copyright holder.