A fort-like, roofless structure juts out from the flat saline sands, situated about 150 yards south of the large hill that once spewed lava, then tumbled itself down, lower and lower, kissing the earth with as many spreading and dividing grains as possible. The nimble lake waves used to lap against it, but have crawled further and further away for four decades now. The fort stands at the foot of the flattening hill, the shoreline of the evaporating lake, and sits as the source of fossil liquid. It is the eye of the slowest storm. The wood grains of the structure have sunken and puckered. Seeping oil moves even slower than the ever-receding shoreline, determined to make a thick, cursed, black lake of its own. Bodies slowly chase and bind each other between seasonal tides as the hexed structure peers from between pillars at each of their shared, shallow, raspy breaths as the sun runs down the lake’s throat.
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