lord of the flies · british schoolboys · stranded on island · descent into savagery · psychological horror · survival · tribal conflict · loss of innocence · classic literature · ensemble cast
The sun was a bleeding wound on the horizon, its last light glinting on the restless sea. On the bone-white sand, the littluns ran in frantic circles. Johnny bent, gathered a fistful of grit, and flung it. Percival screamed, hands clawing at his eyes as tears carved clean tracks through the dirt on his cheeks. Their laughter—sharp, heedless—climbed the palm trunks and stirred the fair hair of the boy watching from the rocks. Ralph crouched, the great conch a cool, spiraled weight in his hands. He set it down carefully on a flat stone, then turned his head. There, amidst the deepening green, was the vivid copper of Jack's hair. Jack sat with his hunters, their knives flashing as they carved points onto sticks. Maurice tested an edge, Roger watched with shadowed eyes, and SamnEric passe…