There was an ocean, once. It withered. It died. Only its salt survived, and fossils—if survival might be judged in the presence of shell-shapes like nautical spirals, the imprints of tentacles splayed in arcane patterns. There were fewer imprints than shells. Soft tissues did not survive the death of the ocean, the ravenous ministrations of decay, and later—much later—the sigh of wind across salt and sand. The survivor-fossils—those close to the surface—weathered to nothing, becoming a part of the sand itself. Deeper—imbedded in layers of compacted, sedimentary rock—leviathan bones marked the repose of larger beasts: whale-things, leviathan eel-things, things with no shape recognizable to the humans who found them. Whale. Eel. These are approximations, more interrogative than declarative. They are a single question mark, buried beneath the face of a planet at once profoundly alien and familiar to the humans now at home on its face. There are other oceans: deep and salty, alive with other things with approximate names. Humans recognize them: not from the lore of old Madre Terra, but from their own history on the cloud-swaddled orb of Gamma Lepus 4. Some think it odd—and, quite possibly, telling—that a world of oceans might be named for a rabbit, though the planet-name—foreshortened in accordance to linguistic drift—might tell a different story. Gamma Lep is what the transplanted natives call the place. Other still might utter two shorter syllable without a space in between. Gamlep. Only time will tell what name the planet accepts for itself. The ancient ocean is gone; younger seas drive the local ecology. Gamma Lepus 4…Gamma Lep…Gamlep (pick a name, any name) thrives. Where once, leviathan things swam in their strange and alien manner, humans walk. Towers—the lighthouses—stand, announcing their arcane purpose to anyone with eyes enough to see them. They are brutal structures. They wear skins of corrosion. Some say that they are ugly. Their purpose is forgotten, but rumor has it that each tower (each lighthouse) is inhabited. Indeed, the lighthouses are mammoth constructs, and so it isn’t unlikely that something might live inside of them. They are visited on few occasions, though when visitations occur, they are quiet and heavy with occult sentiment. Locals say nothing of their reasons for visiting the lighthouses, and off-worlders often arrive, simply to gawk, to see, and to take pictures of themselves in front of the now-ancient, human monuments. No one knows the common purpose of the towers, or if there is even a single purpose to define them. No one knows what manner of energy crowns each tower, gleaming like jewels, suspended above the salt-rusting constructs. Perhaps the planet itself knows…or the fossil leviathans beneath its surface. But no one has asked them, and so they say… …nothing. * * * I took a number of pictures and this is something of those particular captures. There is a mix in this image—of seasons, of days, and of locations: the sources of this single image have all appeared in various photographs in my gallery. The lights were created with the Gimp. I don’t know much about Gamma Lepus 4. It’s a planet that appeared in an early story I’d written and nearly forgot. The name re-emerged as I worked on constructing this image. I’m sure that at some point, Gamma Lepus 4 may deign to tell its story, but for now, I have only the snippet accompanying this image. As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and I hope you’re at the start of a fantastic weekend.