writing

March 1966, Dalat, South Vietnam.

Green Beret First Lieutenant Harrison Bennett stalks his latest target, an elusive Viet Cong Colonel. After weeks of hunting, the man’s face fills the rifle scope.

A deep breath, a partial exhale, a tap from the observer confirming the target.

The trigger squeeze and rifle recoil meld into the muscle memory of training, the pink mist replaces the man’s face, and it is done….

March 2016, Providence, Rhode Island.

Attorney-at-Law Harrison “Hawk” Bennett sits at his desk going over his morning schedule. His phone rings….

His world is about to change forever.

Walking into the reception area, his memories go into overdrive. His eyes see what his mind cannot accept.

A saffron-robed Buddhist monk stands and smiles. A face he last saw seconds before he ended its life stares back at him. A specter from his nightmare lives.

“It has been a long time, Lieutenant Bennett, and a long way from our time in Dalat.”

“I thought you were dead, Colonel. They gave me a medal for killing you.”

Bennett finds himself thrust into a world of treason, double-cross, and a justice department bent on vengeance. Those he once fought alongside have become the enemy.

Forced to choose between his dedication to the law and the memories of the dead and dying in the jungles of Vietnam, Hawk faces his greatest challenge; defending a man he believed he killed from a government gone rabid over protecting its secrets.

Cover for Createspace

A Change of Hate: A Harrison “Hawk” Bennett Novel. The latest work by Joe Broadmeadow coming soon to Kindle and print on Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

Check out my other books at https://www.amazon.com/Joe-Broadmeadow/e/B00OWPE9GU

What is it about memory? Why is it I can recall some things with absolute clarity while others, no matter the effort, flee from my mind the moment after they enter?

Sitting at my writer’s desk, working on my latest project, I tried to recall a great idea I had for the story. Normally I write these things down because of this trick of memory. However, in this case, I did not. It was brilliant, it was creative, it was wonderfully imaginative, and it was gone.

Hoping to revive the dormant brain cells, I decided to change the mood and put on some music. I usually write to soft classical or new age music, but in this case, I decided on something more upbeat.

I chose Chicago’s first album. As soon as the first song, called Introduction, began, I instantly recalled all of it. A little background here. Way back in 1974 some friends and I put together a band. (Someday I am going to buy an old police car, round up my old friends, and announce “We’re putting the band back together!” but I digress.)

Anyway, one of the places we performed was for the Lincoln High Senior Talent Show (most of the band went to Lincoln but they had to bring in my Cumberland High virtuoso guitar talents to round out the group.)

We played the Chicago song, Introduction. As the song now plays on my computer, I recall every beat, chord change, brass solo, percussion background, bass line, and lyrics. Forever fixed in my mind.

Why? None of us ever made it to the Grammies. While the others were talented musicians (now that I think of it, I may have been selected because my family had a station wagon that could carry the equipment) no one pursued a musical career.

Yet I recall every note from that night more than 40 years ago. Nevertheless, try as I might, I could not recall the idea I had just yesterday.

Memory is a fickle thing.

It changes things as suits it, locks some things in, and tosses others away.

Our memories are made of the important, the unimportant, the poignant, the bittersweet, the happy, the sad, those that bring smiles, and those that bring tears.

We try to hold onto them, but some things are outside our control. Memory is like a myth we hold onto no matter how much it lets us down.