TRUTH OR FANTASY?
Two years and one day after Nelson Bennett died, he rose from the dead.
Amidst the hundreds of people strolling down the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica, California he stood alone, hair dark brown, not prematurely gray like it used to be, and at least thirty pounds lighter.
“Nelson!” Jake yelled. “Nelson!” The man was about fifty feet away – close enough for Jake to clearly make out his features; far enough for Jake to wonder if he was hallucinating. There was no way Jake could ever forget or mistake Nelson’s face. It was the face of his older brother, his only brother and only sibling.
The man turned, stared straight at Jake, his blue eyes locking onto Jake’s blue eyes. Abruptly, he glanced over his shoulder, a startled look transforming his gaunt, clean-shaven face, and he placed his index finger in front of his lips. Then he pivoted, and like a snowflake landing on a hot windshield, melted away.
“Stop!” Jake hollered, shoving past two young couples walking in front of him, pushing his way through the endless crowd of people toward the spot where Nelson’s image had vanished.
There in front of the designer eyeglass store, Jake stretched his six-foot frame and stood on his tiptoes to see over the passing crowd. No sign of Nelson anywhere. How could there be? Nelson’s ashes were sitting on a shelf in his closet.
Jake took a deep breath and broke into a run. He knew his behavior was absurd and that Nelson was dead. He also knew what he had just seen.
That’s the rule when you’re not John Grisham, Michael Connolly, or Nelson DeMille etc. To join their hallowed ranks, you need readers, and to get readers you have to immediately engage them.
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