AN: I wrote this alternate ending for English class and my Teacher liked it so I thought I'd post it here. Please Review and Enjoy! ^_^

Ralph could smell the burning bark of trees coming from behind him. With each flick of fire that spread from tree to tree, the wood splintered and crackled as it was swiftly engulfed in the blaze. The creepers soon followed and as Ralph ran he watched them vanish into the thick smog that was rising up into the sky and blackening his view. Ralph could no longer feel control over the rapid movements of his legs. He could feel himself moving now as if by clockwork; with each step was a well timed movement towards escape. Escape? Perhaps from the fire but from Jack and Rodger and the others, no there was no way that was going to happen. Still with the disturbing image of his own head lodged onto an end of a stick, Ralph kept moving towards his temporary freedom as though his life depended on it. Foolish thoughts of life soon gave way as the thought of needs unmet surfaced in his mind and consumed what little stomach he had left. He's stomach growled in agony and his breathing sped up. He was starving, tired, and in excruciating pain. He cursed himself for feeling this way when a far more pressing matter was still chasing after him. If he were to stop now he'd be burnt alive along with the rest of the island.

He jumped over a hefty log but landed in a careless fashion. His right toe began to throb; he looked down for but a second. A gruesome sight greeted his weary eyes; he'd managed to peel the whole of his nail off of the now bleeding flesh. He tore his gaze way from his toe, bit his lower lip, and continued on trotting through the forest. He felt cold sweat droplets ease down his brow; his tongue was eager to great it. He was terribly thirsty and though he was left with no other options, the salty taste of his sweat did little to ease his sore throat.

He'd been running for God only knows how long when his vision began to get blurry. It was hard for him to tell what was causing it; the smoke from the fire, his hunger, his thirst, or his exhaustion. Ralph felt wobbly and in a mere second his vision had completely gone. Sharp pains raced their way across his legs followed by hot, sticky wetness. His vision recovered and he assumed that he'd blacked out. Ralph, as it turns out had fallen onto a pile of jagged rocks, the tips of which, had managed to slice through the skin of his legs and feet. Smelling the smoke coming to claim him, Ralph bravely grabbed hold of a piece of rock in his knee and yanked it out with full force. The hot crimson liquid spilled out down his leg as he propped himself up. He was so close to shore and he knew it. He had to run; something was telling him to just run to the shore.

He got up and staggered towards the shore. His movements were like that of an injured rabbit, all he had to do now was wait for the hunters to come and claim him. When he'd made it safely out of the thicket, he collapsed on his chest. He let out a muffled cry as the sand particles slipped into his wounds. Ralph thought of Piggy and Simon and for the first time their deaths did not frighten or disturb him, rather they somehow became a comfort. With his chin grounded in the sand, Ralph looked out across the ocean. He remembered his words about how the fire would gain them safety, freedom, a chance to go home. He laughed aloud in a melancholy tone and thought "Here's the fire. We've got fire, so where's the ship?"

His laughter gave way to tears when he saw from the corner of his reddened eye a ship passing by far out in the distance. Had he the strength he'd have stood up with flailing arms and screamed for rescue but he couldn't. In his mind beneath those quiet tears Ralph thought "Piggy It's your turn to blow the conch. You've got to blow the conch so they'll come rescue us. You, Me, and Simon. They've come to rescue us from this horrid island."

He lay there, tired and delirious. Then he felt something. It was a feeling that he had sorely missed and he was sure that he was dreaming it. He felt the warmth of a hot bath, the water flowing over his neck and back. He felt cosy and comfortable. He felt at home, until the liquid touched his lips. It was metal. He could not raise his head but he knew that there were boys standing over him. There was Jack and Rodger, looming over him with spears in hand and one implanted stiffly in his upper back. Was death supposed to feel so wonderful? Had life truly become so awful that death now became a kindred spirit?

"Kill the pig! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!"

That revolting chant was back once more, this time to greet him. He gave no fight as the last bit of mixed sweat and tears poured down his cheek. The knife claimed his throat.