Young Writers Society

Mike shook his head. "As true as we that, we don't have anybody to help us with it."

He saw her wince as the wind picked up. He quickly stepped to the side, blocking the thick sand from sliding up the bandage. "Besides, you are in no condition to be moving things."

Senna's eyes thinned. "I can take care of myself!"

She almost fell trying to take a step forward. Mike quickly caught her by the shoulder, and propped her up with a large stick. "My eyes deceive me then. I am not saying you are incapable, I am saying we need to find survivors and all recover from all our little problems before we get started on this big stuff."

"Who's going to lead us? I'm scared!"

The words echoed across the island. Mike and Senna exchanged looks.

"Looks like we have our place to start." he whispered, Senna nodding in agreement. They wordlessly started down the beach towards the source of the voice.

(is it too late to join?)

Name: Wiki Samson
Age: 12
Specialities: He's really smart. He always manages to stay clean nomatter what the situation.
Appearance: Just short of 1.5 metre, skinny, black hair that just about reaches the bottom of his neck, really dark blue eyes. He wears black trousers, white trainers, white short-sleeved shirt.
Background: He's a third generation rich-kid who went to a boarding school for people with too much money
Attitude: He's very blunt and witty. He seems mature, mostly because he's smart and not very emotional, but when he is afraid or excited he acts like a really small child.

<Wiki>

Fantastic! Just brilliant!

I know I said i'd rather be anywhere apart from a crowded little commoners hold up, but this is just ridiculous. THe moment i get home my lawer and I are going to have a meeting with the authorities. Authorities, what a joke. They can't even authorise a little caffine to the idiot pilot who got us here in the first place.

I take a slow walk across the sand to the sea, where I rinse my hands in the icy water. One big scoop splashes across my face, making me aware of the itching pain as the salt water washes into a new cut. Carefully i touch it, the pain screaming for a brief moment before i punch my hand hard into the sand. Don't touch!

It's small, but deep. The salt will help seal it, but sand is the last thing an open wound needs.

I climb to my feet and start walking along towards the huge pile of scrap metal, except now it's a bit more crumpled than when we took off.

I catch sight of a large, red-haired girl, talking with a short, scrawny boy. He's around my height, despite being at least a year older. He looks like he's been tossed from a farm straight into the sea. If not for his eyes, I'd disregard him and his troll-like friend, if not for his eyes. A perfect grey colour, simple, but still elegant.

Perhaps there might be a truce of some sort.

Senna hobbled into the middle of hte group Mike helping her if she needed it. She was thankful for his help but she didn't like people seeing her vonerable.

"And I'm Senna, but that doesn't matter, if you think you are just going to waltz in here and try and take over you aren't. We know nothing about you!!" She snapped at him. "We are stuck on a island in the middle of who knows where, and the worst thing we could do is get a power hungry teen in charge of us. We shoudl probably just wait a week and see who is the best person for the job!"

John placed a finger to his lip as he thought. He wasn't the smartest kid, but he was good at judging his surroundings, "No one should lead."

"What, who are you to say that!?" Peter snapped.

"The name's John. Look, if one tries to take power it'll just cause trouble."

"I agree." A young boy came walking up brushing off his shirt. "Not one person can lead everyone."

"You little.." Peter took a step forward.

"Look," John stepped in front of him, "This is no time to think. Lets put our heads together and think."

Name: Ivan Panasenko

Age: 16

Specialities: Leading, fighting, exploiting

Appearance: Ivan is a short, pale teenager with deeply inset eyes that are brown to the point of being black. His hair is blonde and cleanly cut, but is rarely visible from underneath a characteristic broad brimmed cap.

Background: Ivan has had only the finest in life. He's been to the most prestigious schools, lived in the finest house, had servants that waited on him hand and foot and practically every other body part. His father is a politicain and his mother is a heavy drinker.

Personality: Though sauve and charismatic on the outside, Ivan is a sociopath. He enjoys tormenting other children but picks his friends carefully. Pain is his forte. At a moments notice, Ivan can go from cheerful geniality to savage sadism. He is not afraid of killing. He could be the hero or the villain of the story.

-Kylan

Ivan watched the other children carefully, studying their faces, watching their mouths move frantically, and their arms flail up and down. They gestured. They pointed. They cried. Sobbing in the sand, tears like little corsucating rain droplets that forged rivers down their faces and into their open mouths. The airplane had dug a trench on the lower half of the beach - leading Ivan to half expect French soldiers to pop over the top with machine guns and lead a charge into some imaginary no-man's-land - a stark juxtaposition to the rest of the island which seemed to sway with the utmost serenity. Ugly black smoke hemorraged from the airplane like blood.

Ivan rubbed the back of his neck and shifted on the rock, shaking his head. The whining little bastards. They wanted security, they wanted authority, they wanted adults. Leaders of some kind. Where was the structue of this new playground? it wasn't fun to have a broken arm. It wasn't fun to see the broken body of the pilot rammed through the glass windsheild of the aircraft, thouroughly dead.

They called to be organized.

Ivan knew it would be so easy to gather them all up in some coherent group. To put them together in order to collaberate some beardless, kiddy franternity. Ivan knew it would also be easy to wrap his hands around one of their necks. It would be easy to squeeze. It would be easy to snap. Like a carrot stick...

Not here, Ivy my boy. Not now.

Now was a time for quick action and cool thought. There would be no blood tonight.

Spotting a threesome - one of whom was a tall broad shouldered kid, with shaggy brown hair, sixteen maybe - Ivan slid off of his rocky perch and, hands in his pockets, strode over to them.

There would be no blood tonight.

I stand back, shifting sand beneath my feet. They're arguing already? We need a leader, I know that. I also know that I have no intention of conforming to the command of any of this lot.

Least of all the pale kid moving towards us, his eyes like black holes, staring with murderous intent. I can't take my eyes off that familiar face that has before haunted me with the same glare. Steadily he paces, as if he's strolling down a school hallway to fresh lunch. Ignore the irony.

Still, he's fearfully familiar, if i can just place him...

Panasenko! That's it, Ivan Panasenko, the politicians son.

Dear hailed cheese-and-crackers please no.

The others continue to argue, their voices distant as Ivan approaches.

He stands in front of me, eyes piercing my mind for those few, long moments.

I hold my breath.

His brow relaxes slightly, a flick of ackowledgement in the corner of his mouth.

I release a long, steady breath and nod respectfully.

Jenny started walking towards the group of gathered children. Hyley trailed behind her, wiping his nose repetatively on his hairy, freckled forearm.

"Hey, Whimpo - what's wrong with you?" Jenny thrust her hand into the sewn in pockets on the inside of her skirt, and waved a handkerkief at the boy, "Blow your friggin' nose."

Her heart melted as the poor boy saturated the silk patch.

"Look," The boy nodded off towards the group, "Looks like we've already got ourselves a fight."

Jenny and Hyley trudged through the sand to listen.

". . . you to say that!?" A boy snapped. He was tall and lanky, with black hair and blue eyes. A small cresent scar gleamed white under his left eye.

"The name's John. Look, Peter, if one tries to take power it'll just cause trouble." John said, laying his palms open in front of him, as if proving to eveyone that there were no tricks up his sleeve.

"I agree." A young boy came walking up brushing off his shirt. "Not one person can lead everyone."

"You little.." The aggorant ass, Peter, took a threatening step forward.

"Look," John stepped in front of him, "This is no time to fight. Let's put our heads together and think."

Another boy (Jenny looked around, and counted only one other girl; a real looker too; long brown hair, blue eyes, tan complexction. She was supported by a tall boy, her leg wrapped up in some sort of bloody material) crossed the threshhold and all eyes were drawn to him, "I'm Ivan. Why don't we hold a vote?" Ivan was short, with creepy black eyes. On his head was broad brimmed cap.

"Hold it." Jenny ordered, "Why not go by age?"

"No fair!" A little boy cried, "I'm only 12 - and yet I'm in my final year of high school."

Jenny's eyes softened at the sight of yet another frail baby, but his dark blue eyes told her differently, "And your name?"

"Wiki."

Someone snorted, "Like whicket? In cricket?" It was the boy who had agreed with John before, "I'm Mike - Wiki is a Right Proper Charlie of a name, eh?"

The other girl frowned, "And I suppose you're gonna tease me too?"

"Nah." Mike (Jenny presumed his full Christian name was Michael) was taller than everyone else, broad-shouldered and well built. Messy thick brown hair blew in the wind, "Senna is a cool name."

"Who's left?" Jenny asked.

"I'm Will."

Jenny liked the looks of him.

Ivan's loud voice drew everyone's attention, "We should look for other survivors."

"Ok. Let's go."

---------

I left it open for more people - but maybe another girl, please? And we've already got 9 characters, and i think the ideal would be around 15, so. . . you know. . . if you join. . . . ah i don't know what i'm saying!

Whicket! Of all things!

Does he even know who he's talking to? This is ridiculous!

I'm already working out allies, threats, and total nuicanses. I know I'm young, I know people often underestimate me... But Whicket!

I bite my tongue and assure myself; anyone who can only come up with whicket, isn't worth causing friction over.

By the time i realise what they're talking about, the group is heading off in search of more survivors. I glance briefly at a red blur hanging out of the airplane window, my head immediately jolting away with the sickening turn of my stomach.

We'll bury him one day. But he can wait. Survivors matter more.

An awful shudder runs through my body and I stare at the ground. Whatever we where to find lying along the beach, I'd rather not have anymore of such images scorched into my brain. That's common sense.

Profile

Name: Charlotte (to hell with it! I'll be a girl )

Age: 14

Appearance: Very pale blonde hair and electric blue eyes. Her complexion is clear and smooth but she is not well tanned.

Clothing: She wears a white short-sleeved shirt and a beige skirt. Her belongings are kept in a black shoulder bag which she keeps with her all the time. She lets no-one carry it or look inside it.

Personality: She is peaceful and serene although she tries not to let it show since she fears it will offend others. She is not brave, but understands fear deeply so she can rise above it. Even so, this only helps her in situations where there is nothing tangible to fear. She is very perceptive and sympathetic, but her lack of confidence means she rarely can express how she feels about others. She is not the epitome of goodness, but the closest that there will be on the island.

Other: Possibly a toned down version of 'Simon' in William Golding's LOTF, although she is not completely pure of heart. Her timid nature means she often finds it hard to express her true feelings. But, when she can overcome her shyness, she is a perceptive and understanding girl.





Charlotte

She sat on the beach and gazed at the trauma that had befallen the island. The poor pilot, the wrecked plane, and the clear incision it had made in the beach. It was still smoking, exhaling death.

Raised voices rang out from the crowd of children that had mobilised on the beach. Already they fought between each other, those who could speak loudest were reigning to begin with. Charlotte shook her hair and felt tears build behind her eyelids. Desperately she scrunched her eyes shut and prayed for them to stop.

Not now. Please not now

The swarm of children on the beach finally united. Charlotte sighed. Either a leader had arisen or they had found a common goal. She hoped for the latter.

"Look! Someone's over there!"

Charlotte heard the shout from one of the younger kids. It held the sound of excitement and laughter lilted around the edges of the yell. She wiped her eyes and stood to wave the others towards her. They needed to be together. Rescue could be an elusive prey, but Charlotte knew she would catch it.

Peter was upset. This was not turing out like he had wanted it to. They were working together. Why? They should be totally upset! Maybe it would never work. But it would have to. He was never going back to France knowing that he could have started his own world.

He noticed a tall boy who seemed just as angry as himself. "Hello." He replied cooly, sensing a way to still gain control.

"What do you want?'

"You don't think too highly of them either?"

"What's it to you?'

"Everything..." Peter hissed.

Jenny snatched Wiki away from Peter's sight, "You don't wanna mess with that kid, Wiki."

Wiki tore his arm free, "What's it to you?" He said, feeling slightly like a parrot.

Hyley said, "Look, Wiki - either you're with us or you're not."

Jenny's mouth opened into and O, "Look - another survivour!"

Everyone's head swiveled in the direction she pointed; another girl stumbled towards the group, her pale blonde hair flying around her face, and her clothes as torn as everyone else's.

Jenny approached her cautiously, "Welcome to the group."

**Who is the guy, Mad???? It couldn't be Mike he keeps his cool!**

*its Ivan, not Wiki or Mike*

*yeah, my guy stays calm, just doesn't like to be ruled over, he's fine with equal management if you think that's what he is ticked off about*

"Just how many more are we going to find on this bloody island?" Mike said out loud to anyone willing to hear. A couple heads turned, slightly intrigued, but quickly turned back to continue scoping out the new land.

"Well, remembering that they put about one hundred of us on there, we have a good amount to go."

Mike did a rough head count, pointing to each person as he saw them. Twenty-five.

"Well, not all of them probably survived, but we have about fifty or sixty more that might still be alive."

Mike offered his arm to Senna again to help her walk easier, but she threatened him with her stick.

"Don't. I can carry myself."

Mike pulled his hand away. "Sorry. Just trying to be helpful."

Senna smiled sweetly. "I know. But I don't need it. The younger ones do. We need to watch out for them."

Mike looked over their heavy variety, and couldn't help but wonder how many would get out alive.