Lord of the Flies Alternate Ending

I wrote my own ending to Lord of the Flies for school. Hope you like it!

       Hanging his head low, once-fair hair hiding his face, Ralph knelt on the rocky ground.  He had given up struggling several minutes before and now simply sat in somber pensiveness.  Tears welled in his eyes, not from the binds cutting into his wrists or the slew of cuts and bruises on his naked body, but because of the atrocities performed by this group of savages surrounding him.

                These were once children, innocent and vulnerable, crying at night for their families as they slept on this cursed island.  Not anymore.  As Ralph lifted his head he caught a glimpse of a small boy, no older than seven years, dancing (as if such an elegant word could describe the jagged movements of this creature) around him. The boy was wearing on his petite head the skull of a large boar, his eyes peeking out of the pig’s sockets, making the skull into a perverse mix of swine and human savagery. He was adorned with tribal tattoos drawn of blood, and beat upon a crude drum made of a sizable coconut and dried skin.

                Looking to his left, Ralph saw Piggy and Samneric lying on the ground several feet away, their bodies impossibly small and pitiful in the firelight.  Their dying cries still echoed in Ralph’s head, nearly drowning out the crackling of the fire and the brutish chanting of the savages around him.

“Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!”

The shadow of an approaching figure obstructed the ground in front of Ralph. The chanting grew louder and more frenzied.

“Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!”

               Jack Merridew stood over Ralph. He held a knife in his hand, the blood of Piggy and the twins staining the blade. The memory of Jack impotently jamming that knife into a tree trunk flashed through Ralph’s mind.

                Jack knelt down in front of Ralph and forced his head up. Looking at him, Ralph barely recognized the boy. His long red hair was tied back, and designs marked with blood covered his face, neck, and chest. There was a long scar below his right eye, shining white in the light of the fire.

                His face a mask of wild excitement, Jack grabbed Ralph’s hair and yanked his head back, exposing his dirt-encrusted neck.  He raised the knife to it, the blade just touching Ralph’s skin. The group of savages screamed faster than ever:


                Jack slid the blade along Ralph’s throat. His flesh opened. Crimson began to stain his skin. The atmosphere around them exploded with uninhibited whoops and cheers.

                Ralph looked his killer in the eyes and spoke in a defeated voice.

“The Conch…”

                Jack looked deep into Ralph’s slowly darkening eyes, and saw his own reflected back at him. He saw them change, as something in them broke, allowing him to truly see what he had done.

                Watching the last bit of his humanity spilling out of the body of the boy he once played with on this cliff, Jack was shoved aside by the throng of savages as they each saturated their hands with Ralph’s blood and spread it over their own bodies.


                The fire had now died down to a small flame, and the savages had been asleep for a few hours.  Jack stood over the bloody corpses of the children he had murdered.

                Still ringing in his ears was the wild chanting of his community, but Ralph’s quiet voice dominated these echoes:  “The Conch…”

                He still held the knife in his hand, and looked at it in the dying light. The shining crimson had dried to a dull red, not a sliver of silver metal showing through. 

                Jack was disgusted with himself, with the creatures sleeping peacefully behind him, and with this island for bringing out this side of him he never knew existed.  He now understood what Simon had meant by saying the beast was ourselves.  He mouthed the words of his sadistic chant, and then spoke the words aloud.

                “Kill the beast. Cut his throat. Spill his blood.”

                “Kill the beast. Cut his throat. Spill his blood.”

                “Kill the beast. Cut his throat. Spill my blood.”

                Jack Merridew raised the deadly instrument to his own neck and dragged it along the base of his throat. His blood ran onto the blade, and mixed with that of his dead friend.

The End

1 comment about this story Feed