Lord Of The Flies: A Narrative Fiction

It was a cold morning, the wind was a gentle breeze and the sun shined down brilliantly into a mass of dull clouds. Looking around, most of the neighbors’ front yards look like they spent months without a drop of water. Even the joyous colors of plastic plants on everyone’s front door couldn’t hope to liven up the mood. It was indeed a dead morning, though Ralph became accustomed to this type of air due to years of waking up to it. On mornings like these Ralph wonders if he should have stayed in Cotswolds. If his memory serves him right, the flowers there should be just blooming. Ah, he can remember waking up to the sweet smell of honeydew mixed with freshly baked bread. However, Ralph thought to himself, he made the decision long ago to stay