The Mountain

I wrote this piece for a creative non-fiction class the first time I tried the whole college thing.  We were required to choose a piece from the class to submit for publication, and I chose this one.  I didn’t really know where to send it, so I sent it to the New Yorker.  I received a very nice rejection letter.

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     The mountain is passing slowly along on the left.  The ground next to the car is moving quickly, but the mountain is not.  It never does.  It stands there with its scarred, wind-torn face diligently withstanding whatever cruel games nature plays with it.  Slowly, inevitably, it will be worn away.  A good part of it is already sandy, but still it stands.
     I look away from the mountain and watch the road slipping underneath the car.  I try not to move much.  It hurts to move.  Besides, moving too much might upset Dad.