I am Rogermon trash @littleladyoftheflies - Tumblr Blog

We created an abridged version of The Lord of the Flies, in film, for an English project. Based on the book "The Lord of the Flies" by William Golding.

Please go watch this wonderful video I made with my friends for a project back in high school.

chinchillasinunison

Hunter Boys in Ironic Hells

(just a little concept. kinda a fic, but mostly headcanon sharing.)

Jack Merridew: He lived his life in the fast lane, making enemies both foreign and domestic, but despite that, survived his two closest friends. Finally died after his leg, amputated long ago during his service in the war, got infected and he refused to leave his house to seek treatment. His hell is a cityscape, an endless urban sprawl, twisted like a labyrinth of glass and concrete. Every single person he demands the attention of, to tell him where exactly he is and how to get out of here, ignores him. No amount of yelling, yanking at sleeves and skirts, or pushing does anything. It takes many weeks for him to realize that in the thousands of windows in the skyscrapers he has no reflection in any of them. It’s as if he doesn’t exist at all. The perfect punishment for a boy who did anything; cheat, lie, and even murder; for attention. The only attention he does seem to grab, however, is the city police’s, with his constant displays claimed to “disturb the peace,” even if nobody actually seems to notice them. If they catch him, they beat him to bloody pulp. He somehow always heals from it, but that doesn’t make it anymore pleasant. So constantly he’s running, fleeing, the bottom of the food chain in an infinite urban jungle…

Roger: A hoist of his own petard, our favorite little sociopath. Executed for the mutilations and murders of seventeen young boys over the course of ten years, after becoming known country wide as The Schoolboy Butcher. His hell is a simple one, but effective. Reliving every death and all the pain he ever caused, but from the victim’s point of view. He feels every stab, every smash, every slash, perpetuated by some… thing… that vaguely resembles him, over and over and over and over and over…

Maurice: The youngest of the three to meet his fate, he was only a teenager. Maurice, though a decent enough boy, had a nasty habit of falling in with the wrong crowds, and his mind was a touch too easy to change. Bill and Robert knew that all too well. They asked him to be a getaway driver for them. Most of the time this involved driving away from scenes of vandalism, but one day it involved robbery. And, somehow, Maurice gave into peer pressure, despite the stupidity of it. That corner store owner was not messing around, it turned out. He pulled out a gun on them as the two ran out begging for their lives, and Maurice got caught in the crossfire. He ended up on a stage, a single spotlight pointed down on him. Before him was a void of an audience, unknowable but still somehow tangible in their moods, and a microphone. Maurice knew innately that he had to perform, but what? He tried telling a few jokes, but they didn’t seem to land. The audience booed and hissed at his every earnest attempt. After a while, when he realized he couldn’t even leave the stage, he began to ramble, about his anxieties, his failures, about the stupid mistakes that got him here in the first place. This got them to laugh. The more serious and heated with himself he got, the harder they laughed. They love it in particular when he cries, cries about how he doesn’t deserve this, about how much he wants to go home, about how sorry he was for his complicity in so much terror and bloodshed. He hasn’t learned yet that he bought the tickets to this show long ago in exchange for any integrity he might have, and no matter what, the show must go on…