The ruins around which we gathered
were smaller than we’d expected. The photos that upon a cursory glance had seemed to express views from mountain tops and precarious paths, had, by generous estimation, been taken from a stepladder, or perhaps a milk crate. What we all came to see, the central figure we had thought to be hundreds of feet high was a stepping and golden pyramid. We had all seen it so often in movies and documentaries we could all picture it with our eyes shut. But what no photo could capture and what none of us knew to expect, was the sand. After we removed our packs leaving outlines of sweat on our shoulders and backs, we kicked off our boots and peeled off the thick woolen socks that would have taken us up to the precipice we had planned for, our toes sank into the silken surface as into liquid as we paced around the tiny ruins. The pyramid in reality came up to my hip. It was curved, slouching off to one side like melting ice cream. We all looked to each other dusty toes and sweaty shoulders wondering: Had it changed, or had we all remembered it wrong? By Laura McCullagh
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AuthorWe are a group of multi-disciplinary writer-types who are committed to collective creation. Writing doesn't happen in a vacuum, it happens at a table. Archives
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