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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


They were seated on a very large trunk of a fallen tree that Hurricane Agnes had deposited on the Henlopen, Delaware beach the previous year – an elderly woman in a sun dress and a floppy straw hat and a young man in his twenties clad in a t-shirt and a bright purple swimsuit.  He was staring up the beach at a group of boys and girls tossing a Frisbee. She was watching him staring and waiting for the right moment to continue their conversation.  She nervously fingered an old gold coin switching it from one hand to another.  Finally, she spoke.

“So far your readings have been accurate,” the old woman was telling him.  She then held out her hand as she instructed, “take a deep breath, clear your mind and hold out your hand and tell me what this item tells you.”

He did as she asked.

She placed a shiny small gold coin in the palm of his hand.  “Can you tell me …” she began to ask.

But the young man couldn’t hear her.  He instantly felt pain and anguish, heard screams, saw blood … then quickly 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?”

“Headache,” he lied and dropped his hands to the tree trunk to steady himself.  “… a really powerful headache.  Whoa.  Maybe we better try this again later.”  He stared at the breaking ocean waves for a moment, slowly 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 began to swim very hard until he was a good few hundred yards from the beach. 

He stopped, rolled over, spread his arms and legs and simply floated hoping that somehow his beloved Atlantic Ocean would cleanse him of what he had just seen.  “But it was too real,” he yelled to the sky, “I fucking saw it!”

The rest he could not say out loud.  So he whispered, “I fucking saw it.  I fucking 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.  It was huge.  This is getting 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 that someone or something could undo everything that had occurred since Thursday two days ago.


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© Harry Bagdasian