Creative Writing

Sometimes at dusk, we could see him come out from the hidden interiors of his island. For years, we had no idea who he was or what he did until he was washed ashore on the beach next to our little house. It was Samantha who found him first. She toddled over to where I was sitting in a hammock, reading a book, and tugged at my shirt, asking me to follow her. I figured that she had found another scary spider or sand crab and wanted me to comfort her; she can never speak properly when she’s scared or excited. Grudgingly I rolled out of my Sunday spot and walked with my little sister down the beach, towards the water. Soon enough we came to where he was laying unconscious. The kid didn’t look any older than the boys at school, but there was something about him that made him seem like he had experienced enough for any 80-year-old. His dirty, shaggy hair reached to his shoulders and a poorly-shaven beard grew on his narrow chin. He was tall and skinny, like he hadn’t ever had enough to eat. After checking his pulse and realizing that he was in fact breathing, I told Samantha to find the the prettiest sea shell on the beach and bring it back to me. This is always an effective distraction because the two-year-old can never make up her mind and insists on combing every inch of our property to make sure she hasn’t missed anything. Her wide eyes turned to excited ones and she set off to hunt for her special shell.

Next to me, the boy coughed awake and opened his eyes slowly. As he gained his bearings, I grew captivated by his eyes – they were the color of the ocean, sometimes green, sometimes blue, always unsettled and sparkling. I hadn’t even realized that I was lost in them until he said, “Um… where am I?” I snapped out of my trance and asked him where he came from. “You probably haven’t come far,” I said, “or you’d be lucky to be alive.” He replied that he was from the island in the distance and had been caught up in a storm during the night. “I was fishing late last night, and I must’ve shipwrecked,” he said. His eyes turned a dark blue-gray as he tried to remember. We talked some more and I found out that his name was Noah, he had been an orphan since his parents had gotten in a car crash when he was ten, and he lived on the island because he didn’t want to be a part of the foster care system. “Even if I were adopted, I don’t feel like I’d belong. I’m fifteen anyway, so I’d be on my own in three years anyway,” he explained. “How can you stand being by yourself all the time? Isn’t it lonely out there?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine life without my family and friends. “I guess I just never really needed other people, so I don’t miss them,” he sighed. Just then, Samantha came back from her hunt. She held out the shell for Noah to take. “She’s very shy,” I said. “This is Samantha.” Noah thanked her for the shell and stood up. I made sure he wasn’t hurt and then walked with him and Samantha back to the house.

My parents loved Noah from the moment they saw him. My mom took him in to the bathroom and cleaned him up, and Dad cooked him a great meal of burgers and fries. From the first night he stayed with us, it seemed like Noah was the brother I’d never had. He often talked about going back to his island, but those conversations grew fewer and fewer as he got comfortable with our family and with normal life. In that fall, he started school, and caught on quickly for being away from society for so long. A year from the day we found Noah on the beach, my parents signed the papers to adopt him as one of our own. “Even though you’re sixteen now, we want you as a part of our family forever,” Mom and Dad said when he protested the idea at first. After that, though, he was all for having a family to come back to when he went to college. Now, I can’t imagine what life would be like without my shipwrecked brother.