So for this week we are writing a narrative prompt that ties in the poem "Dover Beach" with the book "Fahrenheit 451". After listening to the reading of "Dover Beach" by Montag, Mrs. Phelps and Mrs. Bowels leave the house. I will be writing a continuation of the story after they leave.
Mrs. Bowels punched buttons on her phone as Mrs. Phelps stood watching.
"What are you doing?" Mrs. Phelps dried her damp eyes. She was still crying over the poem Mr. Montag had read. That awful, awful poem.
"I'm reporting him to the rest of the Firemen." Mrs. Bowels replied curtly as the ringer started playing.
Mrs. Phelps eased herself onto the couch. Mrs. Bowels' parlor walls were turned off, making the room dull and lifeless. She sniveled, wiping her eyes again. The poem was...was terrible. So sad. She didn't know why she was crying, though. It was so sad yet...so beautiful, like nothing she had ever heard before. The way the words were put together sounded like music. Sad, sometimes confusing music, but beautiful, beautiful music.
"Is...reporting Mr. Montag...necessary?" Mrs. Phelps spoke softly.
"Oh, but of course!" Mrs. Bowels assured. "He broke the law. You certainly know how important the law is. You aren't actually defending him, are you?"
"No, I- It's just, no, not defending him, not defending him. But Mildred is our friend, we would be burning her house down too." Mrs. Phelps bit her lip as jet cars zoomed above, their loud engines rumbling like thunder. She thought about the poem again. It was her, after all, who requested that Mr. Montag read some lines from the poetry. Now look at the mess everyone is in.
"I know Mildred is our friend, but she is also Mr. Montag's wife, so we have no choice. Once I get off hold I'm reporting them. For all we know, she could have read some books too. yes, she probably read the books, read all of them."
"But the books, the poetry wasn't so bad, was it? It was sad poetry, very sad, but not bad, don't you think?"
Mrs. Bowels almost dropped the phone. "Books not bad? The poetry isn't bad? It's all bad! sad poetry, sad books, I don't want any of it. Do I have to report you too? Did you read Mr. Montag's book too? Bad books, why is there even books? I should report you too."
Mrs. Phelps stood, glancing nervously at the blank parlor walls. "Oh no, please no. No, I hate books! You don't have to report me. I hate books, I didn't break the law. Books and poetry was sad, why, that poetry was awful!"
She was trembling, watching Mrs. Bowels slowly move the phone closer to her ear. The poem wasn't awful, It was beautiful! So beautiful and moving! It made her think about the war, the terrible war, ruining happiness. But she couldn't go to jail, she couldn't stand to see her house burned.
"That's what I thought." Mrs. Bowels huffed as she was taken off hold. She spoke to the man on the other end with a sour face. "Hello? I'd like to call in a report of someone reading a book..."
