Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Flies or anything by William Golding
A poet sits by the window. The seven o'clock sun is shining through. He looks out and down to the sidewalk. He sees his wife and children walking to the school bus stop, which was just around the corner. He goes to his desk and opens up his journal. He writes:
7:06 A.M.
It's time for a cup of tea, but I can't seem to get up off my chair. It's the same every morning. I tell Rose this, and she puts the kettle on for me. I am forced to get up once it whistles, for it is an instinct I developed during my childhood. That deep bellowing of the kettle reminds me of the conch I used to blow. I have the conch, and it's sitting in a glass container as a display. It's stained with blood from my hands when I reached to grab it before that man came to rescue me. I hate the conch, and I hate thinking about that island. No matter how I try, I can't seem to get rid of the memories I have of that place. I am traumatized by fire, and oceans and pigs.
He closes his journal and sits, looking at the conch. He sees all the things he hates most now, violence, fire, and stupid little boys. He is inspired. He grabs a piece of paper and a fountain pen and begins to write. He writes:
What beast?
That one?
Be careful,
Littleun.
Jack Merridew,
Please don't hurt them,
Keep the fire,
Don't tread.
Piggy and Simon,
Why did you die?
My life is hurt
It makes me cry.
I hid in the bushes
And could smell,
Smoke from fire,
You finally made it hell.
Good job Jack,
Life is short,
At least yours was
And your court's.
Are you watching me,
From up or down?
Either way,
I'm sure of your frown.
Don't you wish,
Time could be erased?
That stick sharpen at both ends
What about that chase?
Simon always said,
That the beast was inside.
I believe him now.
I confide.
Maybe Simon says,
Really isn't such a silly game,
Because if we listened,
All could have been saved.
He stops writing, for the poem is finished. He hears Rose enter. Instead of asking her to put on the kettle, he goes down the stairs and he does it himself.
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A/N: Good? Bad? Tell me! Flame all you want.