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PROSE SAMPLE: new novel for beach reading

Harry M. Bagdasian (240-381-3196) freelance writer/director




a love story of vengeful spirits and novel couplings



On The Beach Saturday Afternoon August 1973

Kyle Wilson and his Aunt Rebecca had walked to Henlopen beach from the nearby Wilson family home. The angle of the sun and the thin morning mist gave the place and the people the look of an Edward Hopper painting. A casual observer would see them as two people enjoying the sea air and morning sunshine. An elderly woman in a sun dress and floppy straw hat and a muscular young man in a tie-dyed t-shirt and purple Speedo. So much for deceptive appearances.


Seated on the big old driftwood log, they each had a lot on their minds. She needed to get Kyle away from a house full of relatives in town for the funeral. She needed information he might provide. Unaware of his Aunt’s motives, Kyle was happy for this brief escape from his new “grownup responsibilities.” Besides, that spot on the beach had always brought him solace of one degree or another.


His Aunt Rebecca needed information known only to Kyle’s father who died two days prior. When Kyle told her of his new psychic ability, Rebecca Wilson heard opportunity knock. Kyle could touch an object and know its history.


Sitting there, Kyle stared up the beach at a group of college students tossing a Frisbee. He was grateful for the distraction. Rebecca Wilson Thompson watched him staring and waited to continue their conversation. She was fingering a double eagle - a twenty-dollar gold piece from the 1800’s. She switched it from one hand to another. Finally, she spoke.


“So far, your readings have been accurate,” he told him. She then held out the gold coin as she instructed, “take a deep breath, clear your mind and hold out your hand.”


Kyle held out his hand and she placed the shiny gold coin in his palm asking, “Can you tell me …”


But Kyle couldn’t hear her. The pain and anguish were overwhelming. He heard screams and he saw blood. He pushed the coin off his palm and covered his ears with both hands.


The gold coin fell into the sand.


“Kyle?” His Aunt Rebecca asked. “Kyle, are you all right?”


He dropped his hands to the driftwood log to steady himself. “Headache,” he lied. “… a powerful headache. Whoa. We better try this again later.” He stared at the breaking ocean waves for a moment, then stood up, kicked off his sandals and removed his t-shirt. Without a word to his Aunt he ran to the shoreline and dove into the surf. When he surfaced, he swam very hard until he was several hundred yards from the beach.


He stopped, rolled over, spread his arms and legs and floated. He hoped that somehow his beloved Atlantic Ocean would cleanse him of what he had seen.


“But it was too real,” he yelled to the sky. “I fucking saw it!”


The rest was too difficult to shout out loud. He whispered, hoping that saying it out loud would diminish the horror. “I saw it. I saw a beautiful woman get half of her face ripped away by a shotgun blast. I heard the screams, I heard the gunshot, I smelled the stench, I saw flesh and blood fly, I could feel a man’s anguish.” He took a couple deep breaths. He watched a gull swoop past high above his head and then told himself, “this new talent of mine is way too fucking trippy.”


He continued to bob in the surf, not wanting to go back to the family, to the house, to the complications. He wished he could undo everything that had occurred since Thursday two days ago. It was Thursday when his twin brother Johnny spoke two words to him: “it’s time.” Those two words reminded Kyle of his brother’s warning from years ago. “When Dad dies, Norman’s business dealings will destroy the family. You're going to have to stop him, Kyle, even if you have to kill him … because if you don't, he will kill you.”


Norman was their very much alive older brother. Kyle’s twin Johnny had been dead since he and Kyle were 14 years old.


Kyle had never shared that information with anyone. And with the events of the past 48 hours, he wasn’t sure he could trust anyone with it now.





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© Harry Bagdasian