The summer of 1986. Central Texas. William and his friends should be having a blast. Instead, they are hounded by the Thousand Oaks Gang and their merciless leader, Bloody Billy. William found Billyâs backpack. And because of what it contains, Billy desperately wants it back, and heâll do anything to get it. William hatches a plan for his friends to sneak away and hide in an abandoned lake house, except they become stranded on the lakeâs desolate island without food or water. Will their time on the island devolve into chaos? Will the friends survive and be rescued?
The Benevolent Lords of Sometimes Island is Lord of the Flies meets The Body by Stephen King, the inspiration for the classic movie Stand By Me.
A gripping suspense story with adventure and danger, tinged with humorous banter between the four friends, the middle schoolers face certain death without adults to protect them from the unrelenting natural elements, as well as the wild creatures that lurk in the wilderness around the lake. With a backpack filled with money and marijuana they stole from the merciless gang leader, itâs only a matter of time before the high schoolers come looking for them, too.
The summer of 1986. Central Texas. William and his friends should be having a blast. Instead, they are hounded by the Thousand Oaks Gang and their merciless leader, Bloody Billy. William found Billyâs backpack. And because of what it contains, Billy desperately wants it back, and heâll do anything to get it. William hatches a plan for his friends to sneak away and hide in an abandoned lake house, except they become stranded on the lakeâs desolate island without food or water. Will their time on the island devolve into chaos? Will the friends survive and be rescued?
The Benevolent Lords of Sometimes Island is Lord of the Flies meets The Body by Stephen King, the inspiration for the classic movie Stand By Me.
A gripping suspense story with adventure and danger, tinged with humorous banter between the four friends, the middle schoolers face certain death without adults to protect them from the unrelenting natural elements, as well as the wild creatures that lurk in the wilderness around the lake. With a backpack filled with money and marijuana they stole from the merciless gang leader, itâs only a matter of time before the high schoolers come looking for them, too.
The first time I experienced real, life-threatening danger was in the seventh grade. I may have been in real danger before the seventh grade, but if I was, then I donât remember it. Thatâs the funny thing about memories. Some memories are these delicate, wispy things like dandelion seeds caught in a breezeâmaybe sprouting someday, maybe they simply vanish. Other memories are these technicolor, vibrant things filled with music and smells and emotionsâpowerful and evocative mental cinema. Looking back, a lot of my memories of my friends in the seventh grade are living, vibrant things. I didnât need danger to make these memories of my friends stick in my brain. But there was once this remarkable time with them that you wonât believe. When I finally tell you the whole story, youâll most likely say, Nah! That didnât happen. But it did. It really did.
Before I tell you about the time me and my friends got ourselves into some real danger when we were in middle school, first let me explain about myself and where I grew up. My name is William Flynn. Iâm from a little suburban town outside of San Antonio, Texas called Converse. This townâs sensibility was more strip mall than metropolis, but it did have the basic necessities for middle school kids: a dollar cinema (cheap flicks and all-you-can-eat popcorn), an arcade (with our faves Donkey Kong and Joust), a comic book store (Marvel titles more than DC), a skating rink, plenty of convenience stores, and the like. What more could a kid want? Back then, my parents called me Billyâa nickname that referred to my uncle who died during the Vietnam Warâbut I preferred my real name, William (even more so since Bloody Billy came into my life, but more on that later). My birth parents divorced when I was a baby, so I grew up mostly with my mom, Pam, and her new husband, Steve. He was a nice enough guy, although mostly quiet when it came to me. He loved my mom very much. That was obvious by the way he kissed and hugged her. I donât think he cared for me too much since he rarely acknowledged my presence back then, not even with a pat on the shoulder.
Anyway, the middle school in Converse, Texas that I attended was called Franklin D. Roosevelt Middle Schoolâa better president I couldnât think of for a school moniker. Funny thing was, it was rare to have a school in the South named after a Northerner like Roosevelt, especially a liberal do-gooder like F. D. R. Most of the schools in and around San Antonio were named after Confederate war heroes like Robert E. Lee or Jefferson Davis. Donât ask me why. Itâs just an observation. But fortunately for me and my friends, we went to Franklin D. Roosevelt Middle School (Now, donât get me wrong, the name was great, but the outside looked more like a state penitentiary than an institution of learning). Most of the kids had a parent who worked at the nearby Air Force Base: Randolph. And because F. D. R. had students whose families were from all over the United States, the kids were all the possible shades of human beings, from pale white to middling brown to dark black. In the mid-1980s, it mustâve been a rare thing having a school population like that in Texas. Looking back, I canât imagine my childhood any other way. Itâs where I made my best friends, my posse, mis compadres. Their names were Randy Moss, Brian Johnson, and Miguel Gonzalez.
We were thick as thieves, as they say, or four peas in a pod, or whatever you want to call a tight crew of close friends. We did everything together, and when we werenât together, we made plans to meet up. We usually met after school in the wooded area behind F. D. R., a path cutting through the oak, pecan, and cedar trees that led the students home to the surrounding neighborhoods like Thousand Oaks or Hidden Oaks. As you rode your bike down the path, a small clearing appeared deep in the wooded area, and there was always some extra sporting equipment and metal bleachers laying around, left there by school district workers after football or baseball games. And on this dayâthe day that would be remembered as the day the real danger seeped into our livesâit was hot as blazes as Randy and I rode our BMX bicycles to the clearing to meet Brian and Miguel. It was the second to last week of school and even though it was technically still spring, it felt like summer had already arrived. The end of school always exuded the promise of fun. Summer couldnât come fast enough.
When Randy and I reached the clearing, we jumped from our bikes (BMX style with handlebar pads) and watched the riderless metal steeds careen into the surrounding brush. It was our unique way of dismounting our trusty rides. The sight of our bikes stabbing the bushes, then falling over, always made us laugh.
âBullseye!â Randy cheered.
âTwo points!â I belted out.
 Randy hopped on the bottom bench of some metal bleachers. He was the tallest and burliest of the four of usâalmost to the point of looking more like a grown man than a middle school-aged boy, his t-shirt and shorts fitting more snugly than they did when his mother bought them last fallâand standing on the metal bench made him appear gigantic, his hulking frame jutting up toward the sky, his red hair closely cropped on his square, freckled head. No one messed with Randy, not even high schoolers, and I enjoyed the security that came from standing next to such a massive friend. But little did they know that good olâ Randy was really a softy under that burly exterior. He rarely started trouble anymore like he did in elementary school. He mostly just wanted to make his friends laugh.
âI got some new jokes,â he said, his hands on his hips, one foot tapping the metal bench. âWant to hear âem?â
âYeah, I want to hear âem.â I sat in the grass, his attentive audience of one. âWe got time before Brian and Miguel show up.â
âAll right, letâs see,â he said, his eyes rolling up to scan the mental list of fresh jokes heâd been compiling throughout the day, instead of listening to his teachers. He carried a copy of Truly Tasteless Jokes by Blanche Knott in his back pocket and studied it like the Bible as well as copies of Mad Magazine and Cracked that he kept in his backpack. He couldnât get enough of these sources of juvenile jokes, puns, and riddles. âDid you hear about the monster with five legs?â
âNo,â I replied. âWhat about him?â
âThey say his trousers fit him like a glove!â he said, punctuating his joke by extending his arms toward me, as if to say Ta-da!
I always burst into laughter when listening to Randy and his joke routines. He was just so enthusiastic about it, even if the jokes werenât all that funny. I loved that about him: his enthusiasm. Sometimes, a little enthusiasm will go a long way.
âI got a million of âem,â he quipped, a smirk on his face, confident in his new juvenile material. âWant to hear more?â
A rustling in the bushes behind us caught our attention and we both looked with curiosity, searching for what may be creeping around us. Not seeing anything, Randy said, âMust be a stupid squirrel.â
âYeah,â I agreed.
âNow, where were we?â
But before he could continue, Brian and Miguelâs bikes appeared riderless and crashed into the brush behind the metal bleachers. Randyâs audience of one turned instantly to three.
âGot some new jokes?â Brian said, dropping next to me.
âI could use a laugh,â Miguel chimed in.
âIâm here all night,â Randy said, smirking. âIâm just getting warmed up. What took you guys so long?â
Brian sighed, then thumbed in Miguelâs direction. âHe had to whiz. Took forever!â
âI drank two cans of Big Red in seventh period. I had to go bad!â Miguel lamented. âI almost peed my pants.â
âThat wouldâve been unfortunate,â Brian said, patting his shiny, auburn afro back into its original shape, then dusting shards of grass from his jeans. He was lanky like Miguel and me, but with longer, sinewy arms that reminded me of a praying mantis, and possessed a bright, toothy smile that was impenetrable to the sugary snacks we constantly ate. I donât know how we were so thin because we ate everything in sight like four trash compactors. Iâm not joking. It seemed only Randyâs mass consumption of junk food metabolized into muscle. The rest of us had black holes for stomachs where Twinkies, soda, and potato chips disappeared into another dimension.
âIt wouldâve been embarrassing!â Miguel was serious. The potential for embarrassment was to be avoided at almost all costs, especially in middle school. Miguelâs earnest disposition was matched only by his studious fashion sense, which that day was Izod shirt and khaki shorts, an outfit closer to a uniform than what the rest of us wore. His curly mane always neatly cut and styled, the result of his fatherâs militaristic routine of visiting the Randolph Air Force Base barber shop every three weeks.
Randy watched the three of us from his metal perch, unamused by the interruption to his comedy routine. His spotlight was dimming with every passing minute that Brian and Miguel bickered.
âGuys,â he said. âYouâre holding up my show. I worked all afternoon on this routine.â
âGo on!â I said.
But before he could continue, we were joined by a solemn crew emerging from the brush, tall high-schoolers who we knew all too well: The Thousand Oaks Gang. Led by âBloodyâ Billy Callahan, the high school bruisers surrounded the metal bleachers while Randy hopped down to stand in-between us and the thugs. Bloody Billy was one of the few people not intimidated by Randyâs over-sized stature.
âWe want to hear more,â Bloody Billy hissed, setting his backpack on the ground, then cracking his knuckles as he slowly approached our group. âI love jokes.â
âFuck you!â Randy barked. The Thousand Oaks Gang all chuckled. âWe didnât ask you to join us.â
âReally?â Bloody Billy stopped in place and looked around. âI wasnât aware that this was private property.â
Billy Callahanâknown as Bloody Billy for his propensity for profuse nose bleeds while fist fightingâwas a lurking presence to the fearful middle-schoolers of F. D. R. Like the Boogie Man, his notoriety had only grown exponentially with time, and some middle-schoolers even whispered that he had failed several times and was quickly approaching 21-years of age, a perpetual senior at the neighboring Robert E. Lee High School. And although Randy certainly wasnât scared of Bloody Billy, we didnât want him brawling with the mean leader and his ruthless cronies. Bloody Billy was a reedy giant with fists like boulders and veins in his neck the size of water hoses, wearing a fascist uniform of tight-fitting jeans and a black Iron Maiden t-shirt. He even fit the part of lead singer for a heavy metal bandâhis shaggy, shoulder-length brown hair and square, stubbly jawline were perfect for a front manâalbeit a lousy cover band at best. To make matters worse, Miguelâs older brother, Rogelio, was a member of the Thousand Oaks Gang and Bloody Billyâs main crony. Donât ask me why. His unerring allegiance to Bloody Billy was a constant thorn in our sides. He was the spitting image of Miguel except taller and his face gaunt with an insidious quality that I can only liken to an angry possum. But whenever Rogelio saw his little brother, he seemed to float to the back of the angry rabble like a ghost. Maybe he felt guilty for being a part of the gang that liked to rough us up. Maybe, but I doubted it. Randy stood his ground.
âLeave us alone,â he said.
âBut I want to hear your jokes, fuck stickââ
âHey!â a husky voice called out behind us.
A security guard fast approached on a teetering golf cart, waving a flashlight in one hand while driving the cart with the other. When I turned around to see what Bloody Billy and his gang were going to do, they were already running down the path at full speed.
âCome on!â Randy commanded, and he darted for the surrounding brush. Brian and Miguel followed him in, and so did I as best I could with my gimp leg, after scooping up the backpack that Bloody Billy abandoned. I mean, there it was literally right before meâbright maroon with black shoulder straps and heavy metal band patches glued onâbegging to be picked up. I didnât even think about it; I just grabbed it.
The security guard followed the gang of high-schoolers down the path, being that the gravel and dirt trail was an easier route for the golf cart to negotiate than off-roading in the woods, skidding in the leaves and mud after us middle-schoolers. We dove into a dank culvert and waited for the commotion to pass.
As we sat inside the culvert, panting and wheezing, we snickered at our predicament. It wasnât unusual for us to be chased by a security guard or a gang of high-schoolers, but every time it happened, it was still a big surprise. The inside of the culvert smelled like mildew, wet dog, and turds, but it was better than being beaten to a pulp by the Thousand Oaks Gang. A persistent dripping of water echoed from the other end of our hideout.
âThat was close,â I said, panting.
âYep,â Randy agreed, breathing heavily. âSay, did you hear the one about the dyslexic Satanist?â Nobody even tried to answer. Just panting all around. âHe sold his soul to Santa.â
âVery funny,â Brian said, trying hard to catch his breath. âWilliam, whose backpack you got?â
I shrugged, then sat the backpack in my lap.
âI think itâs Billyâs. It sure is heavy,â I said.
âOpen it,â Miguel said. âLetâs see whatâs inside.â
I unceremoniously unzipped the backpack and pulled out its contents. In my hand was a large, clear bag of skunky vegetation that was most likely marijuana, although we didnât know for sure, having never been around marijuana, but certainly hearing about it. Underneath that in the backpack, thousands of dollars in various denominations of paper bills, some waded, some rolled, and some just loose.
âOh shit!â Randy said, his proclamation echoing.
Yep. What he said.
I think I went into this story thinking it would lean more towards the horror side because of the mention of Lord of the Flies and Stephen King, but this story focuses more on friendships, adventure, suspense, and characters. If I had gone into this story with slightly different expectations I think I would have had a very different reading experience. I would've probably enjoyed the story even more instead of waiting for something that didn't happen. But that is not the author's fault, that's entirely on me for making assumptions and reading more into the synopsis than what was probably meant to be there.Â
That being said, The Benevolent Lords of Sometimes Island is a really well-written novel about an adventure gone wrong. I really enjoyed getting to know the four boys, their friendship, and to tag along on their adventure gone wrong. The way these boys love and care for each other was what made this story interesting, and you could see how that strong bond and they as characters grew as they went through some tough times together. It's also sort of nostalgic to read about friendships during the time before smartphones and internet access everywhere was a thing. It definitely had its pros and cons which we got to witness throughout this story.
I liked Scott Semegran's writing style. He writes about the boys' adventures in a way that makes it very easy for the reader to picture it all playing out, without going overboard on the details. I would've loved to have gotten to know even more of what was going through the minds of the boys while they were on the island though. But never the less, the challenges and fears they go through there were very well executed and interesting to read about.Â
All in all, I really enjoyed The Benevolent Lords of Sometimes Island. It's a story that I wish I had gone more blindly into, but it still ended up being a very entertaining and interesting read. I would love to pick up more of Semegran's writing in the future.Â