The Larvae and the Lontar Palm

     “Hey, what’s so funny?” Marta asked as she and Sandy caught up to the cacophony.

     “Just a little lesson about how this tree is host to beetle larvae,” John replied.

     “Oh, the beetles. Those beetles.” Marta tried but she couldn’t suppress the grin that fought its way over the other muscles around her small but full-lipped mouth.

     “Oh, you think this is funny too?” John said, poking her gently in the ribs.

Marta fought to push his hands away. “Stop! That tickles,” she pleaded. Her knees buckled under the sheer exuberance.

     “John, stop, it’s... not... appropriate,” Marta said, smoothing her skirt and brushing her hair back, as she shot her tormenter a playful glance.

     John took the hint. “So, you think my worm experience is funny?”

     Marta caught her breath. Her stomach was sore from its workout during her peals of laughter. “Let’s just say you made the party,” she said between breaths.

     “Would somebody please tell me what I’m missing?” Sandy asked.

     “Just a story about how John ate almost all the roasted grubs, all the while thinking they were...What did you call them? Oh yeah, Macadamia nuts,” Marta replied.

      “Sounds like John is the ‘exotic nut,’” said Sandy.

      “Let’s not pick on John. He has learned so much about life here in Irian Jaya. Besides, we don’t want to scare him off, I.....we want him to keep coming back.” Marta relented.

     “Thank you for the vote of confidence,” John pretended not to notice her mistake. “It’s been good to learn about this place. How could I not? There is a challenge behind every tree and over every mountain.”

     “Not all who come survive as long as you have. In fact, I’ve seen men from different organizations come here to deal with consciences, serve humanity, God, or whatever motivated them and last a scant few weeks. This place can make a mad man out of the sanest,” said Marta.

      “Enough fussing over me. I’m no toy soldier. I won’t break. What did you expect to see in me a...’reed shaken by the wind’,” John said, quoting the Bible.        

     “Now, why don’t you two step back, and let us men get about our business.”

      “Maybe we should sit in the shade sipping tea while these big strong men swelter in the sun,” Marta said.

      “Yes, let’s. We wouldn’t want to break a nail,” Sandy added.

      Once they neared the village they stopped pulling at the giant palm. Two older men brought water gourds, and Marta brought John purified water. It felt good going down, even though it tasted bad.

      “Whew, that was tough,” John commented, wiping his brow with a bandanna. “I haven’t worked this hard in a while. Being a pilot has kept me soft compared to these guys who haven’t sweated a drop.”

     “Wait until the real work starts,” Marta said. “You still have to strip the tree.”

      “That’ll build an appetite,” said John.

     “That’s what the larvae are for, feeds the old appetite,” Marta said rubbing her belly. “Other than fodder for beetle larvae, the soft, spongy inside will be ground to a pulp. We eat that too.” She stood resting her hands on her slender hips. Her legs below the hem of the denim skirt were scratched from the branches, vines, and undergrowth thriving in the drenched forest.

      John thought she fit the stereotype of the outdoor, rugged, Jane-of¬-the-Tarzan-stories type of heroine.

     “John, I hate for you to miss these festivities. But we have a lot of stops to make before nightfall,” Sandy interrupted.

      “I’m glad you both came, and grateful for the difference you made with Digul,” said Marta

     “Just keep an eye on him. Why don’t you pack a bag and stay over this weekend? John can bring you by tomorrow when he picks up Digul,” said Sandy.

      “Good idea, why don’t you come tomorrow?” John added.

Marta thought for a minute. Did his eyes sparkle? “All right, I’ll be waiting.”

     Tucker came up to say goodbye.

     John mouthed, “Bring him if you can.”

     “He would love it,” Marta whispered back.

Remember, 100% of all royalties will be applied to Jeff's mission trip to Asia. Jeffrey W. Bennett, ISP is the owner of Red Bike Publishing. Jeff is an accomplished writer of non-fiction books, novels and periodicals. He also owns Red bike Publishing. Published books include: "Get Rich in a Niche-Insider's Guide to Self Publishing in a Specialized Industry" and "Commitment-A Novel". Jeff is an expert in security and has written many security books including: "Insider's Guide to Security Clearances" and "DoD Security Clearances and Contracts Guidebook". See Red Bike Publishing for print copies of: Army Leadership The Ranger Handbook The Army Physical Readiness Manual Drill and Ceremonies The ITAR The NISPOM

The Escape

     His plan was simple. He would help Steve the seventy-five or so yards to the awaiting plane and take off straight down the runway. The airstrip sloped upward about five degrees, so he would need all the power the plane had. He nudged Steve, who less than alert.

     “It’s time to go.”

     “Huh? What’s going on?” Steve lifted his pale face, his glazed eyes trying to focus.

     “I need you to be alert. There are very dangerous people after us. We need to get to the plane. Do you understand?” John spoke slowly, hoping the words would break through Steve’s clouded mind.

     “Just help me up and I’ll race you there.” Steve sobered suddenly, as he clumsily labored to his knees.

     John helped him and sighed in disbelief as his disoriented companion stumbled in the opposite direction. “I think you’ve been disqualified from this heat. Here, let me lead you.”

     Both scurried to the plane. It was like a nightmare as John imagined the plane getting farther away. Finally reaching it, John shoved Steve into the passenger seat.

     Running around the plane, checking for damage and remaining debris, he made a hasty pre-flight check. Satisfied, he reached to turn the power switch on-nothing.

     “Oh no, what next!” John punched the instrument panel.

     He immediately cut it off and back on. He heard the faint sound of the gyro and turned the key. Not enough power remained to start the motor. “Steve, Steve,” John yelled shaking his buddy.

     “Hmm?” Steve answered groggily. He wore a stupid smile.

     It’s not over. I need you to take the controls so I can prop the plane. Those guys drained the battery.”

     “Ok, fly to get more batteries,” Steve said in his delirium.

     “No! no! no!” John yelled. “I have to hand prop the plane. Listen; just hold your feet on the brakes.”

John climbed out and turned the propeller a couple of times and prepared for a starting kick. Then he saw a commotion in the jungle. Some of the natives were holding up the ponchos where he and Steve had been. So far they hadn’t seen him.

     “Please, God, let this start,” John prayed before throwing the propeller downward.

It spun around sputtering but not catching. The alerted natives looked and moved slowly toward the plane, taking cover as they advanced.

“Great, an audience.”

Jeffrey W. Bennett, ISP is the owner of Red Bike Publishing. Jeff is an accomplished writer of non-fiction books, novels and periodicals. He also owns Red bike Publishing. Published books include: "Get Rich in a Niche-Insider's Guide to Self Publishing in a Specialized Industry" and "Commitment-A Novel". Jeff is an expert in security and has written many security books including: "Insider's Guide to Security Clearances" and "DoD Security Clearances and Contracts Guidebook". See Red Bike Publishing for print copies of: Army Leadership The Ranger Handbook The Army Physical Readiness Manual Drill and Ceremonies The ITAR The NISPOM

Leaving a Lasting Legacy-Be careful what you write (or post)

What's In Your Legacy 

A well known politician has been brought into accountability for something he wrote many years ago. In one of his novels he wrote about a graphic and violent act. Whether or not he intended it to be gratuitous or simply part of the developing storyline, he will now be known for writing something that has called into question his ability to lead.

I had a similar experience many years ago as I worked on my first novel. I had not dedicated myself to writing values based fiction at the time. However, once I had typed (yes on a typewriter) the first 80 pages, I decided to destroy the manuscript. It wasn't a hard choice, the manuscript was pure garbage. I did not want my legacy to be tainted by something that may have done well in the mainstream, but may have caused others to question my character. It definitely was not uplifting fiction and I had decided then and there to get rid of it. 

I try to write uplifting fiction that is thrilling to the reader. It can be done and many fine authors have done so. Heroes can be brave without compromising integrity or using gratuitous swearing, gore or sex. I have come to realize that and analyze not only the book cover, but between the pages. 

What kind of treasures are you storing? This above passage doesn't simply refer to money, but the kind of life we are leading and how we will be judged once we are gone. Make your decision now to live a life of character that can't be questioned. Don't compromise for the quick and easy gain, but hang in there for the long haul.

10 Second Hero

10 Second Hero

Writing is very rewarding. It is also surprising. Many people asked about how I came up with the characters in Commitment. You have asked questions like ..."where did they come from?" and "Are they reflection of real life people?" My answer is that very few characters in Under the Lontar Palm are based on real people. Most have evolved from the story.
The following is an example of a character that evolved and lived for about 10 seconds. He was a thought or a mental role I played as I tried to transition and introduce the miners to the village. However trivial I thought the character to be, others have commented on his importance. His 10 seconds left an impression. I'll introduce the passage again and hope you enjoy recalling the story.

Mist covered the early morning ground as a lone figure took his usual position under the overhang. The sentinel stared into the jungle watching until sunrise, waiting for the return of his wife and children. He didn’t know if they were alive or dead, but held to the hope that one day he would be reunited. Dew fell, dropping on large wet leaves, a
torturous reminder of the seconds ticking by. Pretty soon the sun would be up, and he would have to go on with his business. But until then, he would watch and wait.
Suddenly in the darkness, he saw a small movement. He couldn’t see shapes; they were still obscured by the cloak of darkness. But he was sure he had seen something. Yes, there it was again. This time there was more movement and sounds of shuffling feet.
Could it be? Is my family coming back? After all these years, the jungle was surrendering them. Very cautiously, he stood, and crept slowly over to them. He took care not to startle them into fleeing. They had been gone so long, he wasn’t sure they would recognize him.
His heart pounded and the lump in his throat grew until he thought he might suffocate. Still, onward he crept. He was so close now, within ten feet. Unable to contain himself, he leapt forward as a whimper of excitement, and a longing eternal moan rose from his breast. Instead of the waiting arms of his family, the last thing the sad man saw was the grimace of an unknown white jungle demon.

I hope that you have enjoyed this reflection. If you have any questions or comments, please do so here.

Prologue from Commitment-The Novel

PROLOGUE – 1969

“Raymond!” Marta screamed. Her heart threatened to leap through her chest and her lungs burned with exhaustion.

He can’t be dead, she thought. Even yesterday when the runner had limped out of the triple canopy forest bearing the bad news of Suman’s and Raymond’s deaths, she refused to believe.

Maybe he didn’t die. My husband isn’t a man of war.

Marta continued to sprint toward the four men bearing the bodies of two fallen comrades. She saw sadness, fatigue and shame on their faces.

He doesn’t look like Raymond, she thought with a spark of hope. She stopped just short of the tired and beaten men. But she knew it was him. His soul was gone, taking with it all his identifiable character and charm.

Her eyes focused on the gruesome puncture mark and dried blood on his thigh. It was too much. The knot gripping her stomach loosened and she became sick. She could barely feel herself fall on Raymond’s chest. It was as if she watched the scene from outside of her body. She heard her good friend Numah anguishing over her man’s equally lifeless body.

Marta couldn’t feel the arms of others trying to comfort her. Everything she had grown accustomed to now seemed foreign.

Who keeps screaming Raymond’s name? She couldn’t feel her body or hear her own screams. For the first time in her life, Marta was completely numb.