Lord Of The Flies Story Essay Example For Students

Lord Of The Flies Story Essay The war was over, but not without casualties. Numerous ships, planes and factories had been bombed with regular bombs, and London was totally destroyed by a single atomic bomb. Only derelicts lived there now, not knowing of the harmful radiation that surrounded what once was the great capital. Slowly though, things were getting back to normal, shops began opening, and the war started to shift to the back of peoples minds. Life was becoming more normal, but the memory of the war was still there, and always would be. Unfortunately, my memories of our time on the island would never shift to the back of my mind I would never forget what the war meant to me. I might not have been killed, though I wish I had been, I might not have lost my home or seen London go up a huge mushroom cloud of bright red light, but I had lived with people that hardly deserve that title, people that became animals, people that were worse than animals murderers. And I myself, was one of them. We will write a custom essay on Lord Of The Flies Story specifically for you for only $16.38 $13.9/page Order now I was slowly getting better, but I never got through a night without hearing the chant and Simons furtive screams as we jabbed, attacked and mauled him, without seeing Piggys fat body flying into the air and then crashing down on the rocks. I had never recovered from those experiences and at no time had a job. I live in a small, damp apartment above a coin laundry. The greatest pleasure I had in life was feeding the pigeons in the park. I would get what stale bread I could from the bakery to feed the birds. They would rush at me when they saw me and fight for the small scraps of bread before it had even hit the ground. They were animals, but not like Jack and the others, they were kind animals, they never hurt anyone they went about their lives regardless of us. Many times I wished that I too could be a pigeon. I wanted to lead the simple life that they did, I wanted to forget what had happened, I wanted to escape the plaguing memories. It was Tuesday morning and I was feeding pigeons in the park. They were fighting for the pathetic scraps of stale bread I threw on the ground as usual, looking at me begging me with their eyes for more. I emptied the crumbs out of the plastic bag and the birds broke into a frenzy. As I stood to leave, someone on the other side of the pond caught my eye. He was tall, red headed and wearing an expensive suit with a woolen overcoat. He walked briskly, taking no attention of the natural beauty around him. It took me only half a second to recognise him. His was a face I would never forget. I could not believe my eyes; I broke into a run, following him onto the street, as he stepped into a long black car, and as he did so, he turned to me and I saw his eyes his evil, evil eyes. I fell to the ground. I felt sick in the stomach as I saw Piggys body fly into the air, this time with more detail than ever before. I collapsed. I woke hearing the chant Kill the pig. Cut her throat. Bash her in. Kill the pig. Cut her throat. Bash her in. It was a painful sleep, even more so than the ones I had every night. I could see the shocking memories again and again, each time more realistic than the last. I could clearly hear Simons voice over the other yelling and chanting, frantically trying to explain about the beast on the hill. If only I could have heard him then. The sound was clear, but my vision was a frenzy. I could see what seemed like hundreds of sticks poking and jabbing at every part of Simons thin body, and I saw his face I could see the pain and I could see that he didnt understand why we were doing this to him, and I saw eventually, him give up and collapse on the beach, a small trickle of blood flowing from his body. .u121ec95f99b0a37a70ddfff91c81beaf , .u121ec95f99b0a37a70ddfff91c81beaf .postImageUrl , .u121ec95f99b0a37a70ddfff91c81beaf .centered-text-area { min-height: 80px; position: relative; } .u121ec95f99b0a37a70ddfff91c81beaf , .u121ec95f99b0a37a70ddfff91c81beaf:hover , .u121ec95f99b0a37a70ddfff91c81beaf:visited , .u121ec95f99b0a37a70ddfff91c81beaf:active { border:0!important; } .u121ec95f99b0a37a70ddfff91c81beaf .clearfix:after { content: ""; display: table; clear: both; } .u121ec95f99b0a37a70ddfff91c81beaf { display: block; transition: background-color 250ms; webkit-transition: background-color 250ms; width: 100%; opacity: 1; transition: opacity 250ms; webkit-transition: opacity 250ms; background-color: #95A5A6; } .u121ec95f99b0a37a70ddfff91c81beaf:active , .u121ec95f99b0a37a70ddfff91c81beaf:hover { opacity: 1; transition: opacity 250ms; webkit-transition: opacity 250ms; background-color: #2C3E50; } .u121ec95f99b0a37a70ddfff91c81beaf .centered-text-area { width: 100%; position: relative ; } .u121ec95f99b0a37a70ddfff91c81beaf .ctaText { border-bottom: 0 solid #fff; color: #2980B9; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; margin: 0; padding: 0; text-decoration: underline; } .u121ec95f99b0a37a70ddfff91c81beaf .postTitle { color: #FFFFFF; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600; margin: 0; padding: 0; width: 100%; } .u121ec95f99b0a37a70ddfff91c81beaf .ctaButton { background-color: #7F8C8D!important; color: #2980B9; border: none; border-radius: 3px; box-shadow: none; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 26px; moz-border-radius: 3px; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-shadow: none; width: 80px; min-height: 80px; background: url(https://artscolumbia.org/wp-content/plugins/intelly-related-posts/assets/images/simple-arrow.png)no-repeat; position: absolute; right: 0; top: 0; } .u121ec95f99b0a37a70ddfff91c81beaf:hover .ctaButton { background-color: #34495E!important; } .u121ec95f99b0a37a70ddfff91c81beaf .centered-text { display: table; height: 80px; padding-left : 18px; top: 0; } .u121ec95f99b0a37a70ddfff91c81beaf .u121ec95f99b0a37a70ddfff91c81beaf-content { display: table-cell; margin: 0; padding: 0; padding-right: 108px; position: relative; vertical-align: middle; width: 100%; } .u121ec95f99b0a37a70ddfff91c81beaf:after { content: ""; display: block; clear: both; } READ: Christmas Memory By Capote EssayI also saw Piggy shouting at Roger about his specs. I saw Roger lean forward on the lever under the rock, and heard, with frightening realism, the creaking of the rock as it lurched towards Piggy and myself. The rock fell and hit Piggy square, throwing him upwards into the sky, and as he hit the hard rocks by the ocean, I heard his bones crack, before he slid slowly into the ocean without a trace. I had a rotten taste in my mouth and felt sick in the stomach. I was so angry I was shaking, moving almost screaming. I felt terrible and there was nothing that I could do to make me feel better no pills I could use, no action I could take to make me feel better. I was shaking with the painful memories that whirled around my head and wouldnt go away. The pain was so intense. I had to do something about it. I slowly pulled myself from the pathetic garden bed where I had been left and walked back towards my park bench. The shocking memories where still plaguing my thoughts as I lay down on the bench and fell into a painful sleep again. I woke the next morning to the sound of the greedy pigeons. They pecked around me, waiting for me to give them bread. I lay there, just watching them and again wishing that I too could be with them, leading their simple life. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the tall, striding figure making his way across the park on the other side of the park. I pushed the sickly pain in my stomach down and broke into a jog behind him. I caught up to him and tapped him on the back. He turned around with speed and impatience, and as he saw my face, a wicked smile spread across his ugly face. Hello again. He said with a small laugh, the smile remaining on his face. Fancy seeing you here. I take it your doing nothing with your life? I was amazed at the way he seemed to feel nothing about what we went through on the island. I hated him. Dont you remember? Dont you care? Youre a murderer and you can smile! I shouted without thought. So were still living in the past are we? Forget it. We were just kids. It was just a game. A game! I shouted It was rea l life! They were real people you killed! It wasnt a game Look, what are you trying to achieve, he asked impatiently we were just kids. Its all past. Forget it and get on with your life. I wish I could I muttered, unintentionally showing Jack my emotion. Poor little boy. Simon had it coming he was weird, and Piggy. . . Jack said sarcastically. YOU . . . ! I screamed and lunged at him with more hatred than I have ever felt before in my life. He fell to the ground and we fought like children wrestling. Eventually he threw me off and stood up, brushing the dirt off his coat, but I lunged at him again, this time thrusting my knee into his stomach. He doubled over with the pain and I again used my knee and rammed it into his face. My knee was covered with blood from his nose and mouth, and I continued to kick, punch and generally break anything I saw. He was soon on the ground but I couldnt stop. He lay motionless, I noticed, as I stopped for a moment, and I remember thinking that I should leave him. But I couldnt. I thought that I couldnt live with myself if I passed up this opportunity, so I pulled a short plank off wood from a nearby bin surround and started belting his head with it. Continually, monotonously beating his head with the piece of wood. Blood started to pour out, but I couldnt stop myself . I had to kill him, as much as I didnt want to, but I was so mad, so angry, out of control. I dont know how long it took, but eventually, I knew he was dead. I walked slowly home. This time my thoughts were free of the painful memories of what happened on the island, but instead, al I could se was his bleeding head lying in the dirt, dribbling blood onto his expensive suit.