Not what I usually write, but this was my English assignment a while ago and I got it back today. (Got an A+ not that I'm bragging…) When my English teacher told us we were writing fanfiction for an assignment, I almost fell out of seat in excitement, but then he said it had to be of a book we read in class which meant no Kingdom Hearts and made me less excited. However, I still really enjoyed the assignment and I'm proud of this little story. It takes place before Fahrenheit 451 begins. Enjoy :)

The Cliff

It was not the man sitting on the bench that caught Guy Montag's attention, but rather the way he sat. At first glance he was relaxed, leaned back with his feet stretched out in front of him, but every other minute or so his head would jerk up to look left, then right, then left again before returning his attention to his lap and what he hid there.

Watching from behind him, Montag wavered between the intrigue of the stranger and the need to continue on his way to the firehouse. His detour to the park had made him late enough already, but there was something about the man that kept Montag in place, waiting for him to reveal his secret.

Foot tapping, hand tugging uncomfortably at his suit jacket, and a head jerk, left, right, left. The man continued, not realizing he had already been spotted.

It was one furtive hand movement that gave it away. A movement and the forbidden rustle of paper on paper.

A book.

...

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" Montag said taking a seat on the bench beside the stranger. He kept his eyes on the gray sky and pretended not to notice as on the other end of the bench the man balked at his sudden appearance. "A bit cloudy, but it's quite warm for October." He turned to stranger who froze in the act of shoving a hand forcefully into his left coat pocket.

Under his stare the man's hand fell limp in his lap. "Quite warm," he repeated in a defeated voice. His eyes travelled down to the badge on Montag's chest depicting a phoenix and he seemed to sink farther into the bench.

"I don't normally see people spending time here," Montag said gesturing around the empty park. "Everyone's too busy, moving too fast."

"But here you are." The man said it with finality, like it was a fate he had known would eventually come to pass. His eyes flickered back to the badge, reading the name etched there. "Shouldn't you be at work by now, Mr. Montag?"

"On my way," Montag said. Walking to the park had taken him far from his normal route to the firehouse, but he had a reason to risk being late. "It's a shame this park will be gone tomorrow."

"Right shame it is," the man said, giving Montag a suspicious look. "Being uprooted for a new highway to be built."

They were both silent for a moment, but to Montag's surprise the man let out a cynical laugh. Montag raised an eyebrow in a silent question and the man shook his head, the bitter smile still on his lips. "Years ago they would have said it was ironic for the one place you can escape the city to fall in the end to the noise and the metal."

"Ironic?" Montag asked.

"Schools, what do they teach these days?" The man scoffed. He didn't seem to notice his hand which moved to press against his pocket as he spoke. "I remember when they taught language, history, and stories. We looked to find meaning behind the letters. It wasn't all parlor walls with five minute programs. It was-"

The man tensed, realizing what he was saying and, more importantly, who he was saying it to.

"Yet you remember," Montag said, finding himself even more intrigued by the stranger who nodded in the smallest way at his words. "Strange, no one else seems to. Tell me, who are you?"

He didn't have to answer, but knowing Montag could have looked him up later anyway, the man replied, "Faber. Professor Faber actually. In another life I taught English at the local university."

Montag nodded. English hadn't been taught in college since the closing of the liberal arts school nearly forty years ago. He watched Faber stare out at the trees that hid the gray city from view; a once professor now an old man lost in wishing for a life long gone.

"And now you sit here, talking of things no one else would dare mention," Montag said.

Faber turned his gaze from the trees to face Montag with his eyebrows drawn down. "I do not talk things, sir," he said. "I talk the meaning of things. I sit here and know I'm alive."

He turned back to the trees, but Montag continued to study him. For Montag, Faber held a new light. He was a portal to a past beyond his years where, Montag had heard, firemen had once put out fires instead of burning books. As criminal as the thought felt in his mind, Montag wished Faber would reach into his pocket and let him see what he had been taught to destroy.

Faber took a deep breath and exhaled a sigh. His hand slipped into his pocket and Montag's curiosity turned to fear of what he knew was in there. To Montag's relief and disappointment, Faber merely pulled out a pen and a piece of paper which he scribbled on with shaking fingers.

"For your file," Faber said thrusting the slip into Montag's hand. On it was his name and address. "In case you decide to be angry with me."

"I'm not angry," Montag said. The words surprised him, but it surprised him even more to know they were true.

Faber nodded several times, his fingers still shaking. He stood abruptly. "Goodbye," he said tugging at a button on his suit jacket.

"Goodbye," Montag said folding the slip of paper and putting it in his pocket. He looked back up to find Faber hurrying away down the park path with his head bent low. Montag went to stand as well and continue on his way to work when he saw it.

It was sitting there beside him where Faber had been. Small, brown, and dangerous.

"Professor Faber," Montag called, his voice choked. Faber turned and Montag pointed weakly. "You left your…"

"Book?" Faber said and Montag could only nod mutely. "No, it's not mine. Books, as you know, are forbidden. It is said they are very dangerous things and anyone who owns one, Mr. Montag, would know they are very dangerous indeed."

Faber turned once more and Montag couldn't find the voice to call him back. He watched the man until he was out of sight and then risked a glance next to him. It was still there.

He was late for work, he realized, and Captain Beatty would be curious at what had kept him. He could always tell the truth. Faber's address was in his pocket and his home was sure to be filled with books. He could tell Beatty and they'd burn them together. In the flames fed with forbidden words, Montag could toss the brown one in as well and no one would ever have to know. Burn away the book, the curiosity, and the memory of the meeting all at once.

Montag sat a long time alone on that bench before coming to a decision. He reached out and for the first time touched the worn leather cover. It slipped into his pocket as easily as it had slipped into Faber's and weighed him down with its secret.

Standing, he walked out of the park, pausing at the edge to cast one more look upon the trees. Tomorrow they would be gone to make way for faster cars and faster lives, but in his memory it would remain green forever with a bench and an old professor who passed to him a gift both great and terrible.

...

Montag slammed the bedroom door closed and leaned against it, willing his wife Millie to go away.

"Montag?" On the other side of the door she was not so easily deterred. "Montag? Why aren't you at the firehouse? Are you sick?"

"Yes," he replied, his lips barely moving.

"Does Captain Beatty know? Did he send you home?"

"No." Single syllables were the only answers he trusted himself to give.

"No?"

"No."

The voices of the relatives in the parlor laughed and called for Millie to return. Her footsteps drifted in their direction and then drifted back.

"I'll just call him then. Let him know you're taking the day off."

She waited for an answer, but he didn't give one. Shuffling footsteps made their way to the parlor and the 'aunts' and 'uncles' welcomed Millie back.

Montag let his head fall against the door and he shut his eyes tight. Sick. Yes, that is what he was. Sick in the head.

"Crazy," he murmured aloud, hitting the back of his head against the door. Only crazy people kept books.

And now he did feel sick. Physically sick. He ran for the bathroom, slamming another door to barricade himself further from the world so as to keep them all from seeing the terrible secret he carried.

Alone in the small white space, he leaned over the sink and stared at the crazy reflection in the mirror. "I own a book," he said; the words tasted like a curse. He turned away from the mirror and sat on the edge of the tub, burying his face in his hands.

He enjoyed burning books. Didn't he? He found awe in watching them blacken and crumble. There was beauty in the way the smoke and ash danced in the air. He was a firefighter, third generation. His soul, he knew, was charred.

From a pocket in his jacket he took out both the book and his lighter. He traced the salamander etched on the silver metal and flipped open the top. His finger rested on the wheel. A flick, a flame, and it would all be over with.

He had done it a thousand times before, but something had changed.

His fingers flipped the top closed once more and he returned the unused lighter to his pocket. He stared conflicted at the book in his hand and remembered watching Faber who could turn the pages so easily. Faber who had held the book so gently while Montag was squeezing it tight.

He was standing on a cliff looking down at the rocks below. He knew it was foolish to jump, but all he could think about was flying.

One look wouldn't hurt. One peek behind the leather cover would satisfy him.

A particularly loud laugh from the parlor made him jump and his fingers slipped from the pages. The gravity of what he had been about to do hit him hard. The book felt heavy as lead in his hands and unable to look at it, he stood back up.

Montag left the bathroom and the bedroom silently as he could, cringing each time he heard Millie's voice from the other room. Maybe she would catch him and maybe he deserved to be caught.

He took a chair from the kitchen and returned to the hallway. Finding the right spot, he put the chair against the wall and climbed up. He reached up for the air-conditioning grille mounted there and took it off. Resisting the urge to run his fingers once more over the cover, he placed the book inside the duct and pushed it back as far as he could.

Once the grille was put back on and the chair returned to its proper place, he stood in the hallway, looking up. The parlor relatives babbled on and overhead bomber planes droned through the sky, but for the first time they didn't bother Montag.

"I own a book," he whispered and let himself smile.