This is a piece I wrote for English class and decided to put up because there is very little Lord Of The Flies fanfiction. I own none of the characters except for Roger's parents, and I promise I'll give Roger back when I'm done with him. I don't really care if you flame me, go ahead if you want to, but I will sick my demented hellcat, bane of all chipmunks in this realm and all others, on you. His name is Rebel and he says mew. :D Enjoy the story!


It was a damp and cool hour between the dead of night and the first rays of dawn. The rain that had pelted down earlier that night had dropped off into a ghastly sort of fog. This fog was not the usual, comforting kind found hugging the ground, making everything look charmingly vague, but a sinister outline of unnatural evil that imprisoned everything it touched within it's gray depths of obscurity.

The fog passed over and enveloped a cheerfully painted blue house, of a colonial type build, where the white picket fence set up to protect the lawn cowered in terror. On the second story, in a room painted and decorated with equal cheer, a small boy with dark hair thrashed about in his restless sleep, wrestling with terrors beyond adult comprehension. He relived pulling the unassuming lever and what had happened after. Yes, he had seen the rock rolling down towards the blind and fuming Piggy, but the rest seemed as if he had only been watching a movie and no one would get hurt. He knew what happened to Piggy that day, a boy he was not close to, but still thought wise, he had seen the blood on the rocks and had felt the horror of it all.

Suddenly, Roger's mind reeled towards the main cooking fire of Jack's tribe. Simon was there, standing on the beach and screaming something unintelligible at the top of his lungs. Slowly, Roger's sleeping mind worked out what the other boy was saying.

"THERE IS NO BEAST! LOOK ON THE MOUNTAIN!" Simon's voice cracked and trembled over each note.

As if by reply, the Jack's tribe began to dance. The chant swelled, drowning Simon's out. The horrific chant shrieked into the night, Kill the Beast, Cut his throat, spill his blood. As the chant reached a fever pitch and the dance became erratic and full of blood lust, an oddly detached voice began howling with sadistic, chilling laughter that swept through the jungle, shaking the Island to it's core. Suddenly, the hellish voice growled over the chant.


The voice screamed out over the chanting boys, who slowly vanished. Roger's dream world shifted again, without warning this time, to the sloping edge of the forest where a black and pink sow lay with a dozen newborn piglets, innocently oblivious of the world around them as they slumbered in pure contentment. Roger's conscious mind would have known what would happen to the sow, but that part of him was buried by the depths of sleep. He watched as a piglet ran screaming into the sea to be lost to the waves. Vaguely, Roger was aware that his spear had grazed the poor creature, but did not dwell on it. There was no time. It was all just a blur as if someone were playing out this scene on a VCR in fast forward. Moving, running, throw spear, miss, pig screams then stops, she falls, stab with spear, blood on the ground. DEATH. Sharpen stick at both ends, Pig's head for the Beast.

Suddenly, his world slowed down until it was as if the proverbial VCR were playing in slow motion. Roger stood apart, watching other the other boys, when the detached voice came again. This time, however, it came from the sow's head itself.


With that, the little boy's conscious mind clawed its way up out of the murk of his dream and he hurriedly sat up in bed, screaming with all his might. His eyes were wide with fear and flashed slightly green in the dim glow of his night-light as he looked about his room, searching the shadows for the presence he felt but could not see. In between screams, his breath came in shaky, ragged bursts and was soon accompanied by tears. His parent's came scrambling in, just then, but the terrified little boy continued to bawl at the top of his lungs.

"Sweetie, it was just a bad dream." His mother cooed as she hugged Roger, tucking him back in and smoothing the distraught blankets.

"Easy now sport. You know nothing that you see in a dream is real, so it's not going to hurt you. Just wipe your eyes now and get back to sleep. There's a good boy." His father said with the undercurrent of absolute calm that any adult could add to any sentence to make it seem true.

Roger wished with all of his heart that his father's words could be true, although he knew they could never be. During the day, his world was peaceful again, governed fairly and lawfully, but in his sleep, his world was given over to the Island, until all he saw, even by day, was the nightmare of that place. Roger knew that ultimately, the Beast was right, he could never escape.