So this is my first ever published fanfic. Yay! Ah, God.
Basically, this is a rewrite of Lord of the Flies, told from the perspective of the ever-likeable Jack Merridew, aka the most haughty-arrogant-and-self-righteous-bastard in literature. Despite his ass-hattery, I really like Jack (although Simon will forever be my baby), and I thought it'd be interesting to tell the whole Island experience from his point of view.
That being said, I'm a 15 year old girl with no experience in writing, not Sir William Golding himself. My writing will not live up to his, as nice as that would be, and Jack is not my character, so some things may seem OOC. But hey, what's a little experimenting?
Chapters are going to be a bit lengthy because I like being thorough in my writing and I really want to build up Jack's character. Obviously it's going to follow the basic LotF storyline, but I may throw some things in. I dunno yet.
Being new to writing fanfiction, any type of review is very welcome and much appreciated. Suggestions, ideas, constructive criticism, I'm all for it.
Okay, sorry for the lengthy introduction. Thanks for reading, and enjoy the chapter!
The red-head awoke with a start.
His light blue eyes flashed open, and he was immediately engrossed in a cocoon of stiff, achy pain. From his dry lips came a low groan as he tilted his head back and shut his eyes again, tightly, flexing his fingers as he did so. When he reopened his eyes, the world was a great blur of darkness and light, spots and squares, but most prominent, the blur. The red boy blinked several times and licked his lips, squinting as he tried to remember what had happened. He harboured a very faint recollection of the events leading up to his unconscious state, and a dull but steady throbbing in his left temple.
When his vision finally cleared, the red boy rolled his shoulders back and sat up, slowly turning his head as he took in his surroundings. He was still in the plane - or, what remained of it - fastened in his chair by the seatbelt. The front of the plane was missing, in its a place a massive, jagged hole from which sunlight poured in to the otherwise dark cabin. The metal was scarred with gaping holes of various sizes, which allowed more sunlight to speckle the eerie carnage. Twisted metal and wires hung all around him, and the air tasted acrid; of burning metal and gasoline and smoke and death.
Panic was quick to set in when he realized that the seats all around him were unoccupied, the boys nowhere to be seen. He tried calling out for them, but his voice failed him and instead from his lips came a hoarse cough. He turned his head more sharply now, ignoring the pain in his neck, looking for any other signs of life. He stopped when he caught sight of a boy sitting across the aisle from him, and opened his mouth to ask what had happened, but quickly slammed it shut to hold back the bile that threatened to spill from his lips. The boy was slumped back, his head bowed, and from his face protruded a thin piece of metal. His white shirt was stained red with blood, and the back of the seat ahead of him was splattered with the crimson liquid. The red boy swallowed the bile and hurriedly fumbled to unbuckle his seatbelt, more than eager to get out of the cabin and away from the corpse.
He pushed himself up to his feet and cringed as his body protested against the sudden movement, then looked behind him, scanning the seats he'd missed during his initial sweep of the carnage. Some were blood stained, others shredded, several untouched. Then he noticed the small form slouched over in a seat several rows back, so small that it would be impossible to see it while sitting. He initially would have left and more than gladly have been off on his way, but the coarse black hair and black tog that covered the boy stopped him in his tracks and made his blood run cold. He could feel the colour drain from his face, and he quickly stumbled out into the aisle and hurried back to the body.
He knelt beside the boy, lifting his head gently and checking for any injuries. There was a scratch on his forehead, he noticed as he brushed the hair back from the boy's face, but aside from that there were no other eminent injuries. So he's not dead, he told himself in an attempt of self-reassurance. You're not dead Simon, so wake up.
The red boy softly tapped the boy's cheek with a hand, hard enough to make sound but without the force a slap would carry. "Simon," he whispered, then his voice grew louder. "Simon!"
The head jerked up with a gasp, and bright green eyes flashed as the boy snapped into consciousness. He looked around, dazed, until his eyes found the red boy, and smiled pallidly. "Jack," he said, voice small, shrill, and hoarse. "What happened?"
"I'm not sure," the red boy, Jack, admitted quietly. "I don't remember much, but. . . I think - I think the plane crashed."
"Crashed?" The green eyes went wide as the mouth echoed the word. "Is everyone. . . Are they okay?
The corner of Jack's lips twitched. He didn't want to admit that he had no idea where the choir, his choir, was, nor did he want the smaller boy to see the dead one a few rows up. "They're outside waiting." He said. It was half true, he was sure - if they weren't in here, they had to be out there; wherever there was.
"Are you okay?" Asked Simon, cocking his head slightly as he studied Jack. "You've a scratch on your cheek, and a nasty bruise on your head-"
"I'm fine," Jack replied sharply, hating the way Simon constantly fretted over him. "Now come on, we ought to find the others. You can walk?"
"I'd hope so." Simon said as Jack helped him from his seat, and together, the two boys walked down the aisle towards the gaping hole, Jack making sure to distract Simon as they passed the corpse. They carefully climbed from the wreckage, careful not to injure themselves on the jagged pieces of twisted and broken metal that seemed to stick out everywhere. Simon had put on his cap - black and decorated with a silver badge - and it was with irritation that Jack realized he was missing his own. He grumbled something about it and was about to turn back to look for it, when Simon revealed it in his hands. The golden badge - signifying Jack's responsibility as chapter chorister and head boy - glittered in the sunlight, and he was quick to take it from the smaller boy and place it atop his head, feeling as though he were complete again.
"Found it laying on the ground," Simon told him, and the pair pressed on.
They found themselves in a jungle, or at least surrounded by it, since the plane had torn up the surrounding trees and left a giant and ugly scar running through the scape. The standing trees cast green shadows all around, and bugs hummed and buzzed through the air, though even they tended to stay to the shade, not daring to venture out in the sun's harsh rays. Despite the surrounding shade, the heat, almost visible, beat down on them, and under their black togs, quickly grew unbearable. Jack's pale face had turned a deep red as sweat pooled down his forehead, while Simon, always darkish in colour, showed no affects of the heat save for the sweat that glistened on his face. Jack watched him uncertainly, half expecting him to keel over right there, but Simon glanced up at him with a small smile and said "I'm alright."
They trudged on through the great expanse of jungle, sore, hot, and wary, no sign of other boys for quite some time. After what seemed like hours of trekking, the brush in front of them suddenly shook, causing Simon to gasp and step closer to Jack. His heart was an untamed stallion in chest, ready to burst free of his ribs at any time, but he could not show weakness, not in front of Simon. He stepped ahead of the small boy, slowly, cautiously, like a wolf drawing on its prey. "Who's there?
The brush rattled some more, and a flurry of whispers suddenly rose from within it. Simon's posture relaxed, and he came up beside Jack, giggling softly. "The bushes talk here."
"Ow! Bill, watch where you're going!"
"You're the one stepping on my hand! Get off!"
"I'm going to step on your throats if the two of you don't shut up!"
"Wait, wait, be quiet! I hear someone."
"Who?"
"How do you expect me to know?"
Jack released an airy, exasperated sigh and crossed his arms over his chest. "Get out of the brush, for God's sake."
Silence. Then the brush began to shake violently as boys began filing out from it. They stood side by side, eying the two boys in front of them.
"Hey, it's Merridew!"
"And Simon!"
"Merridew and Simon!"
"Simon and Merridew!"
The group all laughed, with the exception of Jack. "Why did you all wander off?" he demanded, bristling with anger. "I should've been the first that you woke up."
"We tried, Merridew." Said a taller boy with short, curly brown hair. Bill. "But you weren't waking up, and neither was Simon-"
"We thought you guys were dead." Rupert informed them solemnly, which caused Bill to shoot him a glare for interrupting him and Henry, the youngest, to wail loudly. Jack groaned and rubbed his face, wondering if he'd have been better off on his own.
"Well, we're not dead, that I can assure you of." He said after a moment. "But we can't linger around here and- wait, why where you in the brush in the first place?"
The entire choir turned to Maurice, who stood in the middle of the group, blushing and rubbing the back of his head with a hand. "See, we uh. . . I, um. . ."
"We were looking for food," Bill said, looking Jack in the eyes, "then we heard some weird noise off in the distance-" he pointed in the direction Simon and Jack had come from - "and Maurice said something about all these monsters that live in jungles like this. So, we uh, all hid in the brush."
"It was probably just the plane," Simon suggested, blushing and looking at his feet when all eyes turned to him. "Um, it was likely just a piece of metal falling. . . There are pieces everywhere, so. . ."
Jack sighed, eager to end this discussion. "There are no monsters, not in this jungle, not in the next, not anywhere. We're not babies, Maurice, so stop acting as such."
The broad brunet grinned and laughed shyly at the direct address, and Jack continued. "We're all here, I assume?"
"We're all here." Harold said.
Jack surveyed the boys, naming them off in his head. Harold, Rupert, Henry, Bill, Maurice, Robert, Wilfred, Roger, Simon, me. . . Good. "Alright." He said, nodding to himself. "You're all okay? The plane crashed, obviously-"
"We was shot down!"
"There was smoke and fire everywhere!"
"Pow pow, pow!"
"Where are we?"
The question brought with it a heavy silence, and all eyes turned to Jack for answers. He looked at them, freckles hidden under a blush of embarrassment. He had no idea where they were, and didn't even remember where they had been going. A dragonfly, magnificent in size and exotic yellow and blue colouring, darted by, and all was silent.
"I assume this is an island." He said at last, pulling at the tog which clung to him fiercely. "But either way, we shan't find out standing here."
"There's a hill back there," Robert said, pointing north. "If we climbed up there-"
"We'd be able to tell if it is an island!" Maurice broke in excitedly. This caused murmurs of excitement and wonder amongst the group, and Jack raised a hand for silence.
"Alright, alright. Choir! In position. We shall trek up the hill to see if there's water all around. Then-"
Jack Merridew was cut off by a loud, blare-like sound from down by the water. The choir looked around anxiously as its deep, haunting wail continued for a moment, stopped, then sounded again.
"That must be the man!"
"Yes, yes, the one with the trumpet-thing!"
Excitement stirred amongst them all now, and save for Roger, they all began chattering amongst themselves. Jack, growing more and more frustrated with their disobedience, punched the nearest tree and silence ensued. "You all shut up!" He snapped, blue eyes blazing. "Just because we're not at school anymore, doesn't mean that I'm not your leader. I expect you all to listen to me the same!" When no one uttered a word, he relaxed a bit and lowered his voice. "Now listen up. Get in your positions - you know which ones - and we'll head down to the beach. Put on your caps."
"Do we have to keep our togs on, Merridew?" Henry whined, face the complexion of a tomato. The question came with murmurs, which Jack ignored. He stood waiting as the boys slowly formed in to two parallel lines that looked to him as one, both resentful and impatient and respectful. He eyed them up, and when he was pleased with their formation, led them in a march through the jungle and down to the beach.