Blog 1-The Calling of the Shell

The plane bursts into flames and falls from the sky. Down, down toward the ocean rushing up to greet it. The boys around me scream in terror and I close my eyes. But it is too late. I have already seen the blasted hole in the side and I know, young though I am, that the plane cannot pull out of its terrible free fall. The boy beside me screams.
"We've been shot!" again and again until he runs out of breath. The water keeps getting bigger. Could one plane filled with small boys survive such a fall?
Then, suddenly, horribly, my suspense is over. The plane strikes the ground with a sickening crunch and bursts into flames. Screams of terror surround me. I pull myself free of the rubble and look around. A little boy is trapped beneath a piece of plane. The fire rages toward him like a living thing. Like some monstrous tiger made of flame. I pause. Mother always told me to remember that every one has to make a choice someday. A choice whether to risk your life for some one else or be safe and let them be hurt. She said, man is neither inherently sinful or inherently good. She told me that a man has tendencies toward good and tendencies toward evil. But she always told me that the situation would help you make your choice. I guessed this time was my choice.
The boy screamed again. He couldn't have been any older than six. He looked at me for a moment and I made my choice. If I didn't help him I knew that I would never be able to live with myself. I jumped forward. Moving quickly I dragged him from the burning wreckage. Seconds later that part of the plane collapsed. The little boy looked up at me, sooty and disheveled. I can see the fearful pallor of his face under the grime.
"Yo-you saved my life," he murmurs softly. His round eyes reflect the flames.
"Don't mention it." I respond, "Anyone would do the same." All of a sudden a strident noise soars up from the trees. It deafens the clamor of boys screaming to each other and boys crying in terror. I look around me. The boy clinging to my arm looks around also. Two older boys arguing a few feet away seem to be better informed then I am. I walk over. As I do I hear another sound through the grating of trees around me. It is a low snarl that makes my blood run cold. The littler boy quivers in fear as he catches the sound of the growl as it blows across the shallow lagoon on the little breeze. I pat his arm comfortingly.
"There's nothing wrong." I murmur gently. He nods like the small child that he is. A pile of rocks blocks the path we have chosen to walk on. Happily he clambers over them like a monkey. When I was smaller I used to do the same thing. My five year old brother does just that now. I wonder how he is doing and what he will think when he finds out his older brother is marooned some where. I put these depressing thoughts out of my head and walk around the rocks. We reach the older boys and I realize I am mistaken. They are no older than my age of 8. Vainly the little boy tries to tap them on the shoulder to make them stop arguing. One of them stretches out an arm and knocks him aside before returning to the fray. I gasp in indignation. This is the opposite of everything my mother ever told me about decorous behavior. She always told me to be courteous to everyone and respect all creatures great and small from the giant carriage horses to the tiny ants. I interpose angrily.
"Hasn't anyone ever told you to be kind to those smaller than you?" the boy who pushed him down shrugs.
"There aren't any adults here to make the rules." I gasp again. No adults? The boy smirks.
"What was that noise?" they cock their heads in confusion. "You didn't hear it?" they shake their heads in denial. "You heard it didn't you?" I turn to the little boy. "And by the way, what is your name?" he smiles innocently.
"Henry."
"Tom, pleased to meet you. You did hear it right?" Henry nods. The other two begin to speculate on the chances of being rescued. They put the odds at 20%. A fruits falls off a branch of one of the trees and rolls down the slight incline into the water near us. Henry picks it up and eagerly devours it. I smile tolerantly and turn away.
"Do you think we should follow the sound?" They shrug nonchalantly.
"Why not?" one of them says. I tap Henry and he follows obediently after us. Two boys stand in the center of a clearing. One of them is tall, slender and fair and the other is short and fat with glasses. The tall one has a shell in his hands that I instantly recognize as a conch. He puts it to his lip again as the fat boy waddles over to us.
"Names?" he asks in a businesslike manner.
"Tom."
"Henry."
"Tim."
"Ted." He nods and hurries off in the direction of some other boys who have just come. We sit down. In minutes the clearing fills up with boys all no older than 12. Last, a group of boys in two neat rows march in. The tall, fair boy sums up the situation in a few well-chosen words. The respect that I already had for him increases monumentally. He would make a good leader and maybe he will someday if we ever get off here alive. He and the leader of the boys in black caps dispute leadership. The other boy looks arrogant and cruel, out for power. I do not like the look of one of the boys he has with him, a boy he calls Roger. The fat boy turns again to us.
"Let's take a vote." everyone raises his hand when he announces Ralph, the tall boy. I smile. Something about the other boy is interesting but frightening. Mother always said I was perceptive. There is an aura of malice about him and a hunger that cannot be cured by fruit or meat. A lust for power hides in his eyes. I am frightened of the boy they call Jack though I cannot say why. I cannot tell anyone, Ralph trusts Jack and made him leader of the hunters. We are making what will be like a small village of boys only until we are rescued. I smile softly to myself and pay more attention to Ralph.