LoTF Project
By: Ceidwen Martin
English 10, 3rd per.

The officer, surrounded by these noises, was moved and a little embarrassed. He turned away to give them time to pull themselves together; and waited, allowing his eyes to rest on the trim cruiser in the distance.

Epilogue:

As the boys climbed onto the deck, only Jack looked back on the crumbling strip of land that had seen so much violence over the past few months. He watched the island shrink into the distance until he heard someone walk up behind him. He turned in time to see Ralph's fist swing into his nose as his world exploded into pain and little dancing red dots. Ralph fell on top
of him, still swinging, screaming at the top of his lungs, "You killed them! You bastard, you killed them!!" Finally two of the crew managed to
pull the boys apart. Somehow the sight of Jack's bloody face satisfied Ralph, and he suddenly felt tired. Tired of the fighting, tired of trying
to lead, tired of the pressure, tired of the violence. He stumbled back down to his quarters, collapsed on his bunk, and slept the first peaceful
sleep he had gotten since the crash.

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Twenty years later:

Jack Merridew rolled over in his bed and opened his eyes just long enough to turn off his alarm clock. The spot next to him was cold, and he didn't have to think more than a minute to figure out that his wife had probably
had another "ladies club" meeting that ran late. He stayed there for another couple of minutes before dragging himself out of bed and heading into the bathroom. When he went downstairs a few minutes later he looked
outside long enough to see that indeed, his wife's car wasn't in the
driveway. He couldn't blame her for staying out anymore. He knew how
overbearing and power-grubbing he could be, he just had no idea how to control it. That was why he was still a lowly sales clerk when everyone he had started with had moved up into management. He hadn't thought about the
island in years. He couldn't bear to, because every time he did he remembered the chant and poor Simon's lifeless eyes looking at him as his body washed out to sea. That memory came rushing back to him as he picked up the newspaper outside his door and glanced through a side article that
caught his eye.

Roger D. Hamill was killed Thursday night while attempting to mug what he
thought was an unsuspecting tourist. The tourist, who has requested his name be kept out of the papers, was walking back to his hotel when Hamill
attacked him, according to police reports.

Jack couldn't read any more and he dropped the newspaper on the floor. He
had a brief flashback:

The storm of sound beat at them, an incantation of hatred. High overhead, Roger, with a sense of delirious abandonment, leaned all his weight on the lever. The rock struck Piggy a glancing blow from chin to knee; the conch exploded into a thousand white fragments and ceased to exist. Piggy, saying nothing, with no time for even a grunt, traveled through the air sideways from the rock, turning over as he went. The rock bounced twice and was lost
in the forest. Piggy fell forty feet and landed on his back across the square red rock in the sea. Piggy's arms and legs and legs twitched a bit,
like a pig's after it has been killed. Then the sea breathed again in a long, slow sigh, the water boiled pink and white over the rock; and when it
went, sucking back again, the body of Piggy was gone.

He shook his head and picked up the newspaper again. It was all in the past, why should he care anymore? He put on a pot of coffee and sat down at
the table with his dry toast, and continued to read the paper.

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(Thursday)

Roger D. Hamill wrapped his arms around himself as he ducked under the tarp
in front of the delicatessen. He was cold, he was hungry, and he had nowhere to stay. He had to get money, and fast. That's when he spotted his
target. The man was medium built, kind of chubby, and balding. He was
dressed like one of those Americans who think London is warm, in khaki
shorts and a gaudy flowered shirt. His wallet was visible in his back
pocket. Roger smiled, laid a hand on the pocketknife at his belt, and
followed the man.

A couple blocks down was where respectable housing stopped and the neighborhood turned into cheap shacks and paper bag tents. The man seemed
to be in a hurry, and Roger had to speed up to keep from losing him. Suddenly the man stopped and just looked around. Roger took advantage of the moment and crept up behind him. He drew his knife as he reached for the man's wallet. Suddenly the man whipped around, his own knife in hand, and he held it to Roger's throat. "Don't move!" He warned, but Roger never was the brilliant kind. He tried to bring up his own knife and rip a nasty hole in the man's stomach, and in doing so, effectively slit his own throat. He
died quickly, but there was no ocean to carry away his body.

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While Jack Merridew was sipping his coffee, Ralph Jackson was already on his treadmill and watching Regis and Kathy on the huge-screen T.V. in his living room. Shortly after he had gotten out on his own, he had moved to
New York City in hopes of leaving behind quite a few bad memories. His father had died in the Navy while Ralph had been stranded on the island, and for some reason Ralph had always blamed himself. He really had no other
family, so there was no reason not to leave. He had made it pretty big, writing a book about the island under a pseudonym. He had a beautiful wife and two beautiful children. Anyone who looked at Ralph Jackson envied him, but he had problems of his own. He had had three heart attacks in as many
years, his store of money from his book was running out, his wife was becoming more and more a stranger, and his children were both grown, gone,
and they never called.

He got of the treadmill, turned off the T.V. and set about getting ready for work. It wasn't much, just a regular column at the newspaper, but it
would continue to pay the bills after his book money was long gone. He flipped on the radio while he was shaving, and listened with only half an
ear. For some reason he found his mind wandering towards the island. He wondered what had happened to Sam n' Eric, and Jack, and Roger, and all the
littluns'. He shrugged off the feeling like one would brush away an unwanted bug, and washed his face in the mirror. He got dressed and kissed his wife goodbye more out of habit than anything. As he got into his car and drove towards his work, he had the strange feeling that he should be
driving towards a sunset.

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Authors Note: Okay, it's kinda cheesy in places and really depressing in
others. Forgive me, I'm a drama queen at heart (.